


Silver Bullet Blues

by glasslogic



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-03
Updated: 2012-08-03
Packaged: 2017-11-11 08:03:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 67,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/476374
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glasslogic/pseuds/glasslogic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam's life at Stanford is falling apart. One day it's clear skies ahead, the next his fiancée is dead in an apartment  fire and he doesn't know how to even start picking up the pieces. The tragedy brings his estranged father back into his life, only for John to vanish again weeks later, gunned down on a street corner halfway across the country. Security footage shows the crime, but Sam doesn't understand how it happened and the search for answers will take him far from the California coast as he uncovers family secrets and buried lies -- learning the hard way that some doors you open really should have stayed shut.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

[ ](http://s1118.photobucket.com/albums/k616/glasslogic/?action=view&current=banner-1.jpg)

  
  
**Prologue**

Sam had been plagued for weeks by the creeping certainty that something was going to happen. There was a wrongness that hovered on the edge of conscious thought, like a burner left on or a lock unsecured. Originally he attributed it to mid-terms, but his nerves jangled with unfocused tension even after his last test was turned in. Sleepless at night and exhausted in the daytime, Sam was unable to point to a single reason his outlook should be shrouded with such a sense of... dread. His scholarship was intact, he was sharing an apartment with the woman he adored, and he was more likely to be injured while jaywalking on campus than by the nightmare hazards of his previous life.

Monsters and magic were in short supply in Palo Alto.

Jessica never asked about his scars, and Sam never volunteered his history. He wanted to talk to her about his restlessness, but immersed in her second week of finals she was unimpressed with anything that didn’t involve differential equations or was actually gushing blood. Her sympathy for his plight was limited.

“Eat more fiber.”

Sam slumped back in his chair with a halfhearted frown. “You aren’t taking this seriously.”

She glanced up from her notes, giving him her full attention for the first time since he had wandered yawning out of their bedroom.

“Seriously? All of your exams are over with and you’ve got some lingering free-floating anxiety combined with sleep deprivation. I, on the other hand, have some very real test anxiety and three more exams this week. Go away.”

“I thought you said I should eat more fiber.”

“You should. Why don’t you go find some?” she suggested pointedly, blue eyes narrowed. “And pick me up some shampoo and another pack of highlighters while you’re out.” A long strand of wavy blond hair had escaped her hair tie and she blew it away from her face with an exasperated huff.

“What’s wrong with the ones we already have?” Sam asked as he leaned over to grab his keys from the counter.

“I only like the orange ones. Oh, get some of those too.”

“Highlighters?” Sam asked, confused.

“Oranges.”

Sam rolled his eyes and headed for the door, but hesitated on the threshold and glanced back, struck by a reluctance to leave her alone. “Why don’t you take a break and come too? We can get lunch.”

She waved a handful of notes at him. “Math waits for no man. Or woman. Go. Shop. Stretch your legs out. I’ll still be here contemplating suicide when you get back.”

And that should have been enough, but still indecision pulled at him. “You sure?”

“Sam!”

He pulled the front door shut behind himself. It settled into the frame with a thud that brought to mind the lids of caskets and Sam cursed his imagination. Jessica was right, it was just the grocery store, not the other side of the world. His nerves were shot from the stress of the past week. Some lunch and a few good nights of sleep would do wonders.

He returned home an hour later to raging flames and sirens, and a vast, echoing silence where her laughter had been.

  
  
**Chapter One**

No one could explain the fire. No one could explain why she had been trapped. At least not to Sam’s satisfaction, just vague mutterings about electrical outlets and old wiring. A mid-morning nap and the subtle dangers of smoke were just theories without any proof. They had found her in the bedroom, but Sam doubted she had been sleeping. Not with exams the next day, not when she’d had the peace and solitude to really knuckle down. It was the kind of mystery that would have raised his dad’s eyebrow in another life, but Sam was out of the business. His life with Jessica had never been touched by the shadows of the supernatural.

Green and black bruises on his arms and waist where the gathered crowd wrestled him back from the burning apartment would take weeks to fade.

The fire department, the police department, even the school therapist sent to talk to him when he failed to show up for classes after her death, had all been crystal clear about the futility of his efforts. He could never have saved her. He’d been two miles away at a grocery store buying highlighters and oranges when smoke inhalation choked out her breath and burned his world to ashes -- for the second time in his life.

Fact and logic did nothing to ease the ache of grief. It sat inside, a festering wound that gnawed at him with maybes and might-have-been's. If he hadn’t gone to the store, if he had tried harder to make her go with him. If he had stayed in the dorms, if they had never moved in together, if he hadn’t sat next to her in that class, if he had never come to Stanford in the first place; a multiverse of possibilities and minute changes that would have steered her clear of her fate. Sam dwelled on them every waking minute, dreamed about them in his sleep. The fire had swallowed the terrible feeling of dread, and in its place left debilitating loss.

On the fifth day he woke up alone staring blindly at the unfamiliar ceiling of a local motel, Sam forced himself to face what lay at the core of his guilt and fears -- and called the father he hadn’t spoken to in three years.

By midnight John Winchester rolled into town. Gruff, grim, and as taciturn as ever, he’d given the scene his own kind of professional assessment while Sam trailed silently in his wake. Sam had never been close to the kind of hunter his father was, and he needed to be certain that it wasn’t the shadows of his own blood-soaked past that ended Jessica’s life.

“There’s nothing,” his dad said, dusting soot and ash off his hands when he finally emerged from the ruins of the apartment.

“You’re sure?”

“Sure as I can be. There’s not a lot of things that start fires, and no local pattern of indicators that one of them might’ve been at work. I looked into the official reports, seems fairly run-of-the-mill. Bad outlet, a lot of smoke.” John hesitated. “I don’t see the hand of anything supernatural in this. Just--”

“Bad luck,” Sam finished dully, not feeling the relief he’d half-expected. She was still gone; no resolution of his own culpability could change that. “What about-- I mean, I knew something was going to happen. I _knew_ it!”

“Sam,” John sighed. “You’d been under a lot of stress, not getting much rest--“

“That’s what she said,” Sam said tightly, “that it was in my head, but...” his voice trailed off as he glanced over again at the smoky ruin.

“Have you ever felt this before when something happened? This kind of premonition?”

“No.” And there had certainly been plenty of opportunity.

“This wasn’t your fault, Sam,” John said, his voice full of gruff reassurance. “You couldn’t have known. You _didn’t_ know. Whatever you were feeling... she sounds like she was a smart girl.”

They stood awkwardly for a moment. With the question of the fire dealt with as much as it could be, it was the harsh words and anger of their last meeting that hung like ghosts in the evening air between them.

“What do you want to do?” John finally asked with customary bluntness.

“About what?” The glare of parking lot lights picked everything out in harsh detail, sharp edges of a nightmare he couldn’t wake up from.

John gestured towards the burned out apartment, with its plywood covered windows and police tape still fluttering from the doorway. The stink of char hung over everything. “You want to stay or do you want to come with me?”

Sam tore his gaze away from the apartment to meet his father’s eyes. “I’ve still got school, things to do. What am I supposed to do if I leave? Hunt?”

John was silent.

“I’m not going to give up here. I don’t want...” Sam let his voice trail off, the rehash unnecessary. Whatever wreckage was strewn across their relationship in the wake of his leaving, his dad had still come when he had called. Sam felt a brief tug of nostalgia for the years he’d spent on the road learning the family trade at his father’s side, before a scholarship offered him the chance at a different life, and he had seized it with both hands.

He didn’t regret that decision. He just wished there could have been an easier way to leave.

“What are you going to do?”

“Move.” Sam smiled humorlessly. “I’ve got some friends who have offered me a place to crash in the short term, I’m sure I can find another place after that.”

His father shifted. If it had been anyone but John Winchester, Sam would have said he looked uncomfortable. “Do you... want me to stick around? For the funeral at least?”

“No.” Sam turned so the apartment was edged out of his field of vision. “Her parents are handling all that. I don’t know that I’d be welcome.”

His dad’s eyes narrowed and even through the numbness of his grief Sam felt a surge of unexpected affection for his father. He couldn’t accept that Sam wanted a life of more than bloodshed and nightmares, but still took offense that his son might be slighted by strangers.

“They’re grieving,” Sam explained, feeling renewed tiredness creep through him. “I’m an easy target. If it wasn’t for me, she wouldn’t have been living here.” It wasn’t fair, but Sam had encountered enough grieving families in his life before college that he knew _fair_ didn’t always have a lot to do with how people handled their pain.

John grunted in acknowledgment, but the grim cast didn’t leave his features. “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?”

“No, just -- thanks. I mean that.” Sam tried to smile, but wasn’t sure how successful the attempt was.

John’s own smile was tight, but it was there. Rueful, a silent acknowledgment of the tension between them, and its cause. “We’re a lot alike, you know. Makes it hard to just talk.”

Sam shrugged, unsure how to respond. His dad rested a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently. “You should call sometimes.”

“My phone’s not exactly been ringing off the hook either,” Sam retorted, feeling a flare of the old heat. He didn’t move though, the point of contact on his shoulder felt good, like forgiveness. Which was irritating since he hadn’t done anything wrong. Only in his family was a full-ride scholarship to an Ivy League school something to be scorned.

But that wasn’t fair either. It had never been about the scholarship, it was the betrayal that his father couldn’t handle.

“I know. I’ll try and do better. We’ve got to look out for each other.” John glanced across the parking lot at the charred wood where living tendrils of flame had crept out from the heat-shattered window casements to eat at the outer frame and siding. “I’m going to stick around for a few days anyway, I think.”

“What about the job? Don’t you have monsters to hunt, people to save?” Sam struggled to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He’d thought he was over this, thought he had accepted the priorities of his father’s life.

The building held John’s attention for a moment longer, like he was seeing another ruin, another death, then his eyes flicked back to Sam’s face. “Nothing that won’t still be there later. I’ve got a double at a motel across town. Why don’t we swing by a store and pick up anything you need, then you can just stay with me for a bit? You need some time, and friends aren’t going to give you the space you need. They won’t understand.”

But his father would, and Sam suddenly couldn’t remember why he hadn’t called him right away. He managed a more genuine smile, nerves raw and fighting tears he’d thought already exhausted. “Thanks. I think I’d like that.”

  
  
**Chapter Two**

_One Year Later_

Sam moved the last of the boxes out of the small storage unit and into the back of the truck. He wiped sweat from his forehead with a grimy hand and drained the dregs of his water bottle under the bright California sun. He didn’t know why he’d even bothered packing any of the apartment crap in the first place. Everything was soot stained or water damaged and stank like smoke. But they were her things, _their_ things, and he just couldn’t throw them out. There had been some vague idea that he might want them, or her family might. But the Moore’s had barely managed to even look at him at the funeral, and after his dad had left it had just been... something to do. And now he was closing the chapter, sending what was left away. There were still a few boxes in his closet at the new apartment; pictures, letters, a couple of knick-knacks that had held some meaning for them, but nothing else.

“That all of it?”

Sam nodded to the man from the Salvation Army, feeling sorry that he had kept the guy so long out in the sweltering day.

“You want a receipt for taxes or anything?”

“No,” Sam declined. “I really don’t think you’ll be able to use much of it.”

“Hey, man. Don’t worry about it.” The guy fanned himself with the clipboard. “The shelters need anything they can get. We’ll take what we can use and pass on the rest.” He held out the board for Sam’s hasty scrawl, then locked the truck’s roll down door and headed for the cab. “You have a good day now,” he called back as he waved and climbed in.

Sam watched the truck rumble down the road until it was lost in the stream of traffic, and then walked to the office to turn in the unit keys; he felt oddly like some weight had been lifted. Keeping her things wasn’t the same as keeping _Jessica_ , and it was time to start making his peace. Like registering for classes again, and actually attending. Everyone had understood that he needed time off after the fire, but a part-time job as a research assistant and long, solitary walks had healed as much as they could. It was time to get back to the business of life. Things like getting some real sheets for the bed, not just a blanket to wrap up in, and plates that weren’t made of paper. Even some second hand furniture. All he had now was a bed and a couch he’d found sitting on the curb and dubbed “not too offensive.” Sam knew Jessica would’ve been furious with him for the way he’d let things fall apart. He owed her memory better than that.

But it was hard. Almost the anniversary of her death and he was feeling it again, a low level sense of impending _something_. Echoes of the past. Sam shrugged it off and focused on keeping busy, on picking up the discarded pieces of his life. Trying to stay to preoccupied to dwell on... anything.

Back at his apartment Sam jogged down to get his mail. The birds were singing, the sun was shining, he had books to buy, bills to pay--

“Sam! Hey, Sam!”

Sam paused and backed up a few feet until he could see Cindy, his office manager, waving a flat package wrapped in butcher paper at him.

“I found this in the office. It didn’t fit in your mailbox and the oversize bins were already overflowing with care packages. Finals are around the corner and everyone’s getting cookies to eat and handkerchiefs to cry in to,” she explained.

“It’s that time of year,” Sam said, keeping his memories at bay as he took the package from her hands curiously. All of his friends were local, so there was only one person likely to be sending him stuff. An envelope with his name and address was taped to the front of the package. No return address, but the postmark was from Shreveport. He gave Cindy a distracted smile. “Thanks.”

She nodded and smiled back, then vanished into the office. Sam got his mail and went back to his apartment. Inside, he pulled a folding knife from his pocket and slit the side of the envelope. The note was terse.

_Sam,_

_Busy, on the move. Didn’t have a safe place to stash this. I’ll be by in a week  
or so to pick it up. Tell you all about it then. _

It was unsigned, but the handwriting and message told him everything he needed to know about the sender. Sam frowned and checked the postage marks again. The package had been mailed almost five weeks earlier. With a deep sense of trepidation he tore open the butcher paper. Inside was exactly what he’d expected, smelling of old leather and gun oil -- his father’s hunting journal. Sam stashed the journal in an empty kitchen drawer and walked back down to the office. Cindy looked up with a professional smile.

“Hey, Sam. What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to ask about that package you gave me. Did that just come in today?”

Cindy’s face clouded and she pursed her lips. “You just missed Michelle, you know, the new girl?”

“Dark hair, wears a ponytail?”

“Right. I found the package on the shelf,” she nodded towards a bookcase by the door, “and I asked her about it. I’m really sorry, Sam. Apparently it showed up a few weeks ago and she didn’t know where to put it and... forgot. Was it perishable?”

 _A few weeks_. “No.” Sam forced a smile. “That’s fine, I was just curious. Thanks.”

“It won’t happen again,” Cindy assured him. Sam mumbled something polite back and left the office. His father was seldom far from the journal, tearing out, adding, and condensing pages as he moved through the world uncovering horrors -- and better ways to kill them. But the journal had been mailed five weeks earlier, and his dad had never showed up, and never called. By itself that was unusual, after their reconciliation John had been making more of an effort to check in periodically. Trying to get his life somewhat rebooted had kept Sam suitably distracted so that time had slipped by before he had really realized it had been... six, seven? weeks since he had spoken to his dad. Three years of weighted silence between them made the absence of communication seem... normal. Even if it had crossed his mind that it had been an unusually long time, he’d have just assumed his dad was distracted with a hunt. Now the lack of a phone call was an ominous portent. Back in his apartment, Sam grabbed his cell phone where he’d left it on the kitchen counter. Before he could dial a number it rang in his hands, startling him so badly he almost dropped it.

He recognized the number immediately and pressed the talk button. “Dad?”

“Who is this?”

It was definitely not his dad. “You called me, who are you?” Sam demanded.

“Detective Peter Regalo with the Shreveport police department. Your turn.”

“You’re calling from my dad’s cell,” Sam said sharply. “Has something happened to him?”

“You’re...” a fumbling sound as if the detective on the other end was checking something, “Robert Elmore’s son?”

Sam had to blink. Robert Elmore? That was a new one, and only four syllables. His dad must have been tired. “Yeah, I’m...” Fuck it. He had no idea what his dad was into and what he didn’t know was probably not stuff he wanted coming back to his real name. Not to mention explaining _Robert Elmore_ , “Sam Elmore. Is he okay?”

The detective on the other end of the line sighed heavily and the vague uneasiness Sam had been feeling crystallized. He knew exactly what the man would say before the words even left his mouth.

“I’m sorry to have to tell you this Mr. Elmore, but your father is dead.”

  
  
**Chapter Three**

_Murdered._

Three days later, the word still made no sense. Sam would have flown out immediately, but he had excuses to make and fake ID’s to obtain. The police were involved and they were going to have questions. Lots and lots of questions. Sam needed something that was going to stand up to more than a cursory glance and those kinds of documents took time.

He had never harbored any illusions that his dad was going to live to a ripe old age. It was a miracle he’d survived as long as he had in the first place, but when it happened Sam had expected his dad to go down under the claws and teeth of one of the monsters he hunted, or maybe to just vanish without a trace and never surface.

Gunned down in an alley hadn’t even made the top ten list of ways his dad might die when Sam had been a frightened thirteen year old left alone to huddle under blankets in motel rooms while his dad went out to... do what his dad did. It had been a rough time in his life. Until he was twelve “dad” was just a guy who showed up once or twice a year to take him shopping or to a movie, buy him some ice cream and listen patiently while Sam told him about school, and the zoo, and trying out for the soccer team. But then Pastor Jim had a heart attack and suddenly Sam was being packed into the backseat of the Impala along with the rest of John’s baggage.

His dad had still managed to keep the truth of what he did a secret for a while, but Sam wasn’t stupid and John’s vague muttering about being some kind of special policeman stopped holding water fairly fast. So his dad told him the truth, and Sam started sleeping with a gun.

And a nightlight.

And a bag of salt.

He learned the hunters’ trade because he had to, because it was stupid to know what he knew and _not_ learn it. Because it was the family business, even if it was just a family of two. But then Stanford happened, and Jess, and... _murdered._

Jesus.

He knew his dad had some people in the hunting community that he called more often than others, but Sam didn’t have any of their numbers. Barely knew their names. He’d never hunted alone, never worked a job that his father wasn’t right there at his side. His dad had never seemed to feel it was important for Sam to make contacts of his own.

Maybe that was one of the reasons why it had been so easy for him to walk away.

Sam sighed and slumped down as far as he could in the tiny airplane seat. His knees were already aching and the baby four aisles up hadn’t stopped screaming since coming on board.

Still twenty minutes left before taxi.

Sam closed his eyes and wished himself far, far away.

~~~~~~~

“That’s him.”

“You’re sure?”

Sam nodded and tightened the arms he had wrapped around himself. “Yeah, that’s him.”

“Alright.” The detective motioned and the morgue attendant on the other side of the glass tugged the white sheet back up over the... corpse. Sam let out a deep breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding.

“Was it fast?” he managed to ask.

“It was fast,” Detective Regalo assured him. “Even professional, you could say.”

Sam tore his mind away from waxy, pale features and the wide strip of gauze hiding an obvious head wound. “Professional?”

“Two in the torso, one in the back of the head, from about ten feet away. Why don’t we go upstairs and talk -- unless you need a minute?”

Sam shook his head and followed the detective to the elevator. “I don’t know how much I can really tell you. I haven’t seen my dad in about a year.” Not since the fire. “He and I didn’t talk often, and when we did, it was mostly family stuff.”

“Can you tell me what he did for a living? Because I have to say, he’s pretty much a blank slate.” Detective Regalo gave Sam a hard look as he ushered him into a tiny office. “In fact, as far as we can determine, he didn’t even exist before a few months ago.”

“Must be a clerical error,” Sam said evenly.

“Must be.” Detective Regalo’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Sam sank into one of the chairs in front of the desk. “Do you have any suspects?”

“None we could name, but you might be able to help out with that. I have something I want you to watch,” Detective Regalo said. He sat on the edge of his desk and reached for a remote control. “The security footage is a little fuzzy; it’s from a convenience store camera down the street. The camera shouldn’t have actually caught any of this, but someone angled it wrong when they were installing it. Sometimes the mistakes work in our favor. Still not as useful as it could be, but I’m hoping something about the shooter will be familiar to you.”

Sam angled his chair towards the television and VCR sitting on a media cart in the corner of the office.

The video itself was both better and worse than he had prepared himself for. It was black and white, the lack of color and fine detail made it seem... unreal. His father’s last minutes looked like news footage of a robbery. It was hard to connect with and Sam struggled to take in the important details.

Oddly, John was wearing only a pale colored t-shirt over his dark jeans. Sam couldn’t remember having ever seen his dad outside without a jacket of some kind, usually to cover the weapons. He was obviously not armed in the video. From the hand gestures and movement he seemed agitated, and appeared to be talking to another man, who stood with his back to the camera. From what the tape showed the stranger had short hair and was dressed in jeans and a light jacket. Where his dad was animated -- almost vibrating with energy, or anxiety, the stranger was unnaturally calm, watching patiently while John railed. Finally John scowled, gave one last impatient gesture, and turned to walk away.

“We have no idea what he said,” Detective Regalo’s voice shattered the silence of the room, shockingly loud against the mute tension of the tape. “The recording quality is too poor. We have some people working on enhancing it, but they don’t seem optimistic of recovering that kind of detail.”

Sam nodded, still focused on the tape. His dad, normally the most paranoid and cautious of people, didn’t seem tense or concerned about the man at his back. And he should have been, because he had only taken a few steps when the stranger casually retrieved a handgun from under his coat, pointed, and pulled the trigger. Three bright flashes and John Winchester, monster hunter and Sam’s father, was lying dead in a spreading dark pool.

The stranger picked up his shell casings, then rolled the body over. What was left of John Winchester moved bonelessly until sightless eyes stared up at the sky. The footage was grainy, but the features of the shooter still seemed unusually distorted, impossible to distinguish, even when he turned in profile. Sam could make out the basic human arrangement of a nose and mouth and eyes, but the detail seemed deliberately blurred.

“We don’t know what’s going on with the camera, maybe something on the lens,” Detective Regalo commented on Sam’s unspoken thought, sounding less than convinced. Sam agreed with his skepticism -- a convenient something on the lens that just happened to move around only with the shooter’s face? Sam didn’t know of any technology that could do that, but there was more out in the world than technology and a man interested in killing his father was likely to be well aware of that fact.

On the tape, the shooter crouched down beside the body for a long moment, apparently just admiring his handiwork, then reached out with gloved hands and closed John’s eyes. His head jerked up sharply--

“The gunshots were reported, we think he was responding to sirens from approaching officers.”

\--and then he turned his attention to John’s hand. He pulled at something in apparent frustration, then stood up and walked briskly away. A few seconds later a car with flashing lights pulled up to the curb and a pair of uniformed officers piled out. Detective Regalo raised the remote control and the tape shut off.

“What was he after?’ Sam asked.

“Not entirely certain, but seems to have been a wedding band. It was pulled up to the victim’s knuckle, but apparently the assailant had trouble getting it off before he had to flee the scene. Can you think of any reason he’d be interested in it?”

“I don’t think so. My mother passed away when I was a baby. It’s been just my dad and me for a long time.” Sam was genuinely baffled. His father had worn his wedding ring, but Sam couldn’t imagine how that would be interesting to anyone.

“Maybe... a trophy of some kind? To prove he’d done the job?”

“Have you seen that man before?” Detective Regalo asked. He slid off the desk and ejected the tape.

Sam’s hands were so cold he could barely feel them and he stared down at the carpet, not sure how he felt. He was certain of one thing though, blurred-out features on a few minutes of tape wasn’t going to stop him from finding the killer and getting answers.

“No. I’ve never seen him before.”

The detective sighed and took his own seat behind the desk. “I’ve got to level with you, Sam. This mysterious background you and your dad have going is causing me and the department some headaches.”

“Sorry to be an inconvenience, do you want to see my driver’s license again?”

“No,” the detective pinned him with a look, “I want to know what your dad was involved with that ended up with his body in my morgue.”

“My dad was a mechanic, Detective Regalo, not some kind of covert spy or government agent. I don’t know why someone would have done this. I can’t help you.”

“Your _can’t_ sounds an awful lot like _won’t_ , Sam.”

“My dad worked on cars,” Sam said evenly, “and I’ve never seen the man who killed him before in my life.”

“You’re certain?”

Sam sighed and rubbed his face. “Look, detective. I’m exhausted. I haven’t slept in two days, and just watched my father’s execution. What possible reason could I have to lie to you about this? I would tell you if I had anything that could help.”

Detective Regalo leaned back in his seat and crossed an ankle over his knee. “And what do you do again?”

“I’m--“ a student would be too easily disproved under his new name, “--unemployed. Thinking about going into the family business.”

“Automotive repair?”

Sam nodded shortly. “Yeah.”

The detective laced his fingers together, watching Sam speculatively. If the goal was to unsettle him it failed, Sam was more or less proof against that kind of intimidation, and it wasn’t the first time a police officer had found him suspicious.

“What about the body?” Sam finally asked after the silence had stretched out several minutes.

“We like to hang on to the bodies of unsolved murder victims in our area for a while. Make sure we dot all our i’s and cross all our t’s. So it’ll probably be a week or so. You’ll have to make arraignments with a local funeral parlor; they can work out the details with the M.E.” He paused, and then continued in a slightly gentler tone, “Are you sure there isn’t anyone else you want me to call? An aunt, a sibling, maybe a cousin or something?”

“There’s only me.”

“So much for the family business.”

Sam met his gaze. “It’s a small family.”

“Apparently.” The detective’s gaze didn’t waver.

Neither did Sam’s. “So, are we done here?”

“I don’t have any more questions for you right now, but I’d like you to stay in town for a few days -- in case something else comes up.”

“That’s fine. You’ve got my cell number.” Sam stood up to leave, but hesitated at the door. He couldn’t help the police, and he couldn’t help his dad, but he could find the bastard that had pulled the trigger and extract his own form of justice. He just needed one little thing. “What about his personal effects?”

“There wasn’t much on him other than his clothes. Just the wallet, the phone, and the ring.”

“Can I see them? I can tell you for sure if it’s his wallet or if there’s anything weird about his things. I really do want to help you catch this guy, Detective.”

Detective Regalo didn’t look entirely convinced, but he picked up the phone and spoke quietly to someone on the other end for a moment. He tucked the receiver under his chin and looked at Sam.

“Did you want to take a look now?”

The faint glimmer of a plan was forming in the back of Sam’s mind. “It’s been a rough day. Can I come back and do it later this afternoon?”

“It doesn’t have to be today. You can come back tomorrow if you’d like to instead,” the detective offered.

“No, I want to get it over with. Just need to take a little time to get my head together first.”

Detective Regalo shrugged and spoke briefly into the phone again before hanging up. “Deborah is the evidence clerk handling the case. She’s going to be here until six this evening. All you need to do is go to the desk downstairs and give them your name when you’re ready.”

“Thanks,” Sam said sincerely. “I appreciate it.”

~~~~~~~

The first thing Sam did when he escaped from the detective’s office was borrow a phone book from the receptionist and call the first funeral home listed. The very sympathetic young woman on the other end of the phone assured him dealing with the situation wouldn’t be a problem and that his father’s ashes would be available for pick up a few days after the coroner released the body. Sam gave her a credit card number linked to his new identification to pay for a cremation, and the mailing address of Pastor Jim’s old church for shipping. They wouldn’t know who Roger Elmore was, but they would probably hang onto the box until Sam could swing by and pick it up.

Sam hadn’t realized how cold and tense he was until he finally made his way back out onto the street and the heat of the afternoon sun began to soak in. Not even Jessica’s death had rocked the foundations of his world like this. This had always been the death he feared most. And he was utterly alone with it, the result of a lifetime of secrets and lies. Fortunately, he had other things to distract himself with -- like rage, a roiling anger to spill into that empty confusion. Fury to keep him warm in the places grief left cold. Jessica’s death had been an accident, freak happenstance that left him with no one to blame and only his dad to lean on, but someone had _done_ this.

That someone was going to pay.

Everything else would have to get in line.

The first step to exacting the justice that no court would condone was finding out who the son-of-a-bitch was. And the easiest way to do that was to exploit the only obvious mistake the man in the video had made.

“I need a ring,” Sam told the harried looking man at the counter at the first pawn shop he found.

“What kind of ring?”

“A man’s wedding ring. Plain, yellow gold.”

If the salesman thought the request was odd he didn’t say anything, just fished a tray out from under a locked counter and set it out for Sam to view. There were a depressing number of the bands tossed rather haphazardly into the box, each one probably a gleaming tribute to a private pain. He picked through the disorganized mess until he found one that seemed about the right weight and fit him well enough, then slid it on. He paid the two hundred dollars the clerk quoted and headed back to the police station.

It took Deborah-the-evidence-clerk less than five minutes to show up in the lobby after Sam asked the receptionist to call her. She looked him over and then examined his identification with a thoroughness unusual in Sam’s experience. Finally satisfied, she ushered him through the door and into a long hallway painted industrial grey.

“I’m sorry about your father,” she offered after the heavy glass door closed behind them.

Sam just nodded. ‘Thanks,’ didn’t seem like the right thing to say and nothing else came to mind. Deborah led him to a small, cold room containing a metal table in the center, a couple of folding chairs and a long reflective window. On the table was a cardboard filing box with “Elmore, Robert” written on the side in heavy black marker over a series of numbers that didn’t mean anything to Sam.

An entire life, brought down to this. Sam had been doing a good job of just not dealing with the fact that his _dad_ was _dead_. But the reality of the box just _sitting_ there was driving it home in a way that even viewing the body hadn’t done.

Deborah’s voice drew him back. “Pete says I’m supposed to let you take a look at this stuff.”

“Yeah, I’m supposed to tell you if any of the things he had look unusual.”

“All right.” She walked over and signed her name on a form taped to the top of the box, then pulled a utility knife from her pocket to cut through the official evidence seal taped around where the lid attached to the box. Seal cut, she pulled off the lid and glanced up at Sam. “Are you sure you want to do this now? You look a little pale.”

“I’m fine,” Sam assured her. “It was a long flight. I just want to get this over with.”

She smiled in sympathetic understanding and turned her attention to the contents of the file box. The first things she removed were two large zip lock type bags. In one Sam could make out a folded shirt, and in the other, jeans. It was hard to see the blood on the jeans since they were folded and already dark, but the off-white shirt was liberally covered in rusty stains. Deborah hurriedly set them aside, and then placed the lid over them. “I don’t think you need to examine those.”

No, he really didn’t.

“There’s not much else.” She pulled out two smaller bags and set them on the table, one had a battered leather wallet and the other his dad’s wedding ring. “There wasn’t anything in the wallet except his driver’s license and about twenty dollars. Nothing on the money to make it stand out. There were several numbers programmed into the phone, but except for yours they all led to dead-end prepaid cell phones.” Sam nodded, unsurprised.

Deborah glanced at the one-way mirror and continued. “There were some calls on the phone about a month ago, and then nothing until the day he... died. Then there was the call Detective Regalo placed to you and one other number, but it’s one of the dead-ends I mentioned. The phone is still with the techs. You want to look the wallet and the ring over anyways?”

“Yes, and... can I have a minute? Alone?”

She hesitated. Sam tried to relax some of his walls enough to let his genuine grief and confusion show. Deborah’s expression softened and she glanced at the wall length mirror. “I need some coffee, do you want a cup?”

“I’d love one,” Sam said gratefully.

“All right, it’ll just take a minute. It’s right on the other side of that glass.”

Sam nodded obediently at the warning and took a seat in front of the items with his back to the two-way mirror as she left the room. There was no way to know if he was being watched, or how closely, but as long as no one was carefully scrutinizing his every move.... Sam picked up the wallet in its bag and turned it over, examining it. It looked like his dad’s, but the details of his father’s wallet hadn’t been something Sam had ever paid close attention too, and he couldn’t swear one way of another. He set the wallet down and picked up the bag with the ring.

It slipped from suddenly nerveless fingers and Sam swore and picked it back up. His heart was pounding in his chest and he forced himself to calm down. He had never done a job as personally important as this one and nerves were making him stupid. He took a deep breath, then slid the ring in the bag into his palm, and the ring from his finger into the bag. He slipped his dad’s wedding ring on and set the bag back on the table just as Deborah tapped on the door and walked back in.

“I didn’t know if you wanted anything in it,” she said, setting a Styrofoam cup of coffee on the table next to him. “So I just went with black.”

“That’s fine.” He took a long sip. It was old, the bitterness appropriate. Sam drank it without comment.

“Did you see anything you want me to tell Detective Regalo about?”

Sam stood up. “No. Nothing. I appreciate you letting me look.”

Deborah carefully replaced all of the zip lock bags into the file box and set the lid in place. From outside in the hallway someone called her name. She settled the box on her hip with a sigh. “Always something. Do you remember the way out or do you need someone to take you?”

Sam rubbed his thumb over the worn gold of the ring on his finger. “I’ve got it. Thanks.”

  
  
**Chapter Four**

As he walked away from the police station Sam pulled the battery out of his phone and tossed both pieces into the trash can. He slipped the ring off and slid it into his jeans’ pocket. It would have to do until he could secure it in something better.

He went to see where the shooting happened, but didn’t know what he expected to find. If he hadn’t seen the tape it would have been... just another random low-rent street corner. Sodium streetlight, battered brick that had seen better days, and shop fronts with barred windows and fading signs. The murder had happened days ago, and other than a pool of blood and the body itself, there had never been much evidence. The police had taken the body, and a fire hose had dealt with the rest, but the stain of that dark pool was still faintly visible on broken concrete. Sam knelt, pressed one hand to the cement, and closed his eyes. In his mind he could see the killer, crouched in almost the same place. He stood up abruptly as if burned. His father was gone, and there was nothing left of him here.

Sam spent the next three days scouring the city, trying to find the reason John had been in Shreveport in the first place -- but his efforts uncovered nothing. No motel room, no bartenders who recognized his picture, not even his father’s truck. There wasn’t any supernatural activity Sam could identify that might have merited his dad’s interest.

It was as if John had come out of nowhere to die on that street corner, and left no trace of his presence or passing.

The last thing John recorded in his journal had been a werewolf hunt. There were indications that it had been unusual somehow -- sending Sam the journal in the first place spoke to that if nothing else, but the details were all missing. Including where the hunt had actually been. Sam figured his dad had probably pocketed the relevant notes before dropping the journal in the mail since he was actively working the case. But if the hunt had been in Shreveport, then Sam wasn’t able to find any evidence of local attacks for at least the last six months and John had only been missing five weeks before his death. Truthfully, Sam wasn’t particularly worried about the werewolf anyways -- he wanted the man with the gun. Anything else was hunting, and no business of his.

But the killer, that was personal.

There was nothing in the city or the journal that pointed in any particular direction, nothing that hinted at a motive for murder or the identity of the killer. It was time to take another path.

~~~~~~~

Sam could feel the ring in his pocket like a five pound weight as he knocked on an unassuming door at a cookie-cutter house in the suburbs of Atlanta. The house was as carefully maintained and orderly as any other on the street, but in the neat flower beds around the door Sam could make out at least half a dozen plants with occult properties that he could almost guarantee didn’t come from any casual nursery. After a moment, the door flew open and the personality of the woman who greeted him was almost an assault after the sterile blandness of the neighborhood.

“Sam!” Pamela Barnes stood on her toes and threw her arms around his neck before he could do much more than blink, surrounding him in a cloud of patchouli and jasmine, wild dark hair and jangling bracelets. As she stepped back, her lively green eyes flashed with good humor and the glance she raked him with could only be called inviting. Sam smiled back despite himself and motioned towards the greenery.

“Is that Henbane and Belladonna?”

Pam glanced at the plants in question and raised an eyebrow. “You think I’m likely to get visitors who decide to chew on the greenery while waiting for me to open the door?”

Put that way... “It looks nice. Very, uh, healthy,” Sam said diplomatically. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” she peered past him up and down the street, “you don’t have that jackass skulking along in my bushes or anything do you?”

“Dad? No, he’s.... dead.”

“Oh honey,” Pamela stepped back gesturing for him to enter, “I’m sorry. For you anyways, I’ll personally sleep better at night knowing he’s not going to be grabbing me in an alley or something.”

Sam looked around at the eclectic decorations of the house, Pamela’s personality beamed at him from every corner. “It’s not that he personally disliked you--“

“Can it,” she cut him off as she ushered him to the kitchen. “You don’t need to be defending John-fucking-Winchester to me. He wouldn’t have been in such a hurry to kill me if I had given up that coven in Wichita and we both know it.”

“He didn’t have a lot of patience for the supernatural, Pam. You’re a psychic, that crossed his line.”

“I must have missed the holy light that shone down and dubbed him the lord high executioner,” she retorted, “and it didn’t cross his sacred little line until I personally pissed him off. Then suddenly I’m lumped in with the rest of the monsters. Your dad would have been a much happier person if he had taken me up on my offer to get a little high and go for a roll in the sheets.”

“To _what_?” Sam blinked at her.

She grinned, unrepentant. “It was his personality that was the problem, Sam, nothing wrong with the package. Did I thank you for saving my life?”

“That’s kind of what I’m here about,” Sam admitted, desperate to shelve the mental images Pamela had conjured up. The call that warned her about his father’s change of heart had been a spur of the moment decision, but he hadn’t regretted it. Sam didn’t have any argument with most of what his dad had chosen to hunt, having seen firsthand too much of the pain and mess that monsters left in their wake. But Pam was different. She might not be pure vanilla human, but Sam thought _monster_ was a little extreme for the psychic gifts she had been born with.

“All business.” She rolled her eyes good naturedly. “You Winchester men need to learn how to live a little.”

Sam ignored that and fished the plastic sandwich bag with the ring out of his pocket. “This is my dad’s wedding ring, I know the man who killed him touched it. Can you help me find him?”

“You’re really just gonna jump right into this, aren’t you?”

Sam tried to quell his impatience. “I just want to do what I need to do and get back to my life. This isn’t what I do anymore. Not that I ever did _this_ , but I don’t... I’m not a hunter. Whatever happened to my dad, I want answers and whatever kind of justice I can get. Then I’m done.”

“Good,” she said with surprising feeling, and then sighed and focused her attention on the ring. “If you don’t know who he is, how do you know he touched it?”

“The police had a video they let me watch.”

She looked at him, a searching kind of look that made the hair stand up on the back of his neck. “I’ll do this for you, Sam, because I owe you and I think you’re a nice guy. I’m doing this _only_ for you.”

“He wasn’t a bad man, Pam,” Sam said quietly, thinking of baseball games and fishing trips. Even on the road, even hunting -- John had made time. Not much, but there had still been the odd soccer game, and side trips to state fairs. But what Sam remembered most from those first years on the road was that his father had listened. For miles and hours all across the country, during a period of adjustment that must have been almost as difficult for John as it had been for himself, his dad had taken the time and attention to make Sam feel like he had a place to belong.

It had been easy to forget that in the anger and frustration that dominated their last years together. He still thought his dad had been an ass about a lot of things, but had enough perspective and self-awareness to know the bad behavior hadn’t been all one sided.

It was hard to feel anything but grief and anger, but Sam was grateful they’d made peace before John died. He had enough shadows to live under.

“He was an asshole,” Pamela snorted, snapping Sam back to the conversation.

“He was my dad.”

Pamela raised an eyebrow and held a hand out for the ring. “I thought that’s what I said?”

Sam gave her a _look_ and handed the ring over.

She wasn’t phased by his irritation and held the ring up in the clear plastic baggie. Her eyes narrowed in consideration as she examined it. “Gold’s good for imprints, and a wedding ring doesn’t usually have a lot of strangers to sort though, plus a strong emotional connection to the owner. Did you take this off his body?”

“It was in police evidence.”

She frowned. “At least one other person then, the morgue tech who bagged it. Maybe more depending on how they handled the scene.”

“Does that make a difference?”

Pamela shrugged and set the bag on the table. “It won’t make it easier, but you’re looking for the killer, and that’s a pretty strong impression. Shouldn’t be a problem to sort that one out from other random debris.”

“Good. How long will it take?”

“Why, Sam,” she said dryly, “it’s like you’re in some kind of hurry or something. What do you plan to do when you find this guy?”

Sam appreciated her use of the word _when_ instead of _if_. “I’m going to ask him why he did it, and then I’m going to finish it.”

“What if he had a good reason? You dad wasn’t exactly a saint.”

Sam’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t reply. He had considered that, and admitted to himself that there might be some possibility that what had happened on that tape had been... not completely without cause. But shooting an unarmed man in the back with no warning? It would be a hard sell.

A very, very, hard sell.

Pamela’s assessing look was harder this time. “You’ve changed.”

“It’s been a few years. I’ve grown up some.”

“I noticed,” she agreed. “It looks good on you. But that wasn’t what I was talking about, and you know it.”

Sam shifted impatiently. “Was this something you wanted to share or can we get on with things?”

She looked like she wanted to say something else, but in the end just shrugged and led him from the sunny kitchen down a hallway. At the end was a heavy wooden door that matched nothing else in the house. Without hesitation Pamela pushed it open and led Sam into cavernous darkness.

  
  
**Chapter Five**

Inside the room, Pamela pushed the door closed and Sam stood in the pitch black, deeply aware of the sound of his own breathing and soft footsteps on the wooden floor.

“Uh, Pam?”

“Give me a second.”

The sharp scent of sulfur stung Sam’s nose as Pam struck a match and lit a candle. She lit several more in short order until the room was bathed in a warm, golden glow. It wasn’t a particularly small room. In the center was a circular table of dark wood with five heavy straight-backed chairs spaced evenly around it and a matching long table pushed up against the wall. A large cabinet of the same dark wood sat against the opposite wall and heavy curtains covered what must have been windows across from him. The room smelled of clean herbs and wood wax. Pam was ignoring him as she rummaged in a trunk.

“Nice place, probably not good for plants,” Sam observed.

“I need a dedicated place to work,” Pamela said absently and she searched for something.

“It doesn’t exactly scream wholesome family fun in here, you know.”

She flipped a lock of dark hair out of her eyes and glared at him. “Do I seem like a wholesome family kind of person? I’m not slaughtering goats or summoning zombies. If you thought I was, you would have let your dad kill me years ago.”

“It’s really... dark,” Sam said, still looking around.

“You know what likes the dark, Sam? Ghosts, spirits, the restless _whatevers_ I communicate with. Not the ones you and your kind hunt, but the quieter, more delicate things out there that have voices so faint even a heartbeat can drown them out. A girl’s got to be hospitable if she wants to get paid in this world. Or the next.” She tossed a folded paper on the table and set the ring on it, then closed the trunk and opened a cabinet. From where he was standing Sam could make out a half-rack of drawers and shelves with glass bottles and containers unidentifiable from where he stood.

“You don’t have any eye of newt in there do you?”

“No,” Pam retorted, “but I might be able to come up with the testicles of a smart-mouthed hunter if you keep this up.”

When she turned back to the table she unfolded the paper and it turned out to be a huge highway map of the United States. It covered most of the table with the corners falling over the edges. Pam frowned.

“Better hope your guy doesn’t like Alaska or Hawaii.”

She poured a handful of dark powder from one of the jars into her hand and sprinkled a fine dust over the map, then grabbed another jar and repeated the process.

“What is that?” Sam asked.

“Magic.”

Sam rolled his eyes, but took the hint.

Pam muttered something under her breath, then held a sprig to one of the flames. It smoldered and a heavy, smoky scent slowly filled the air. Sam sneezed and rubbed at his eyes.

“Should I even ask?”

“You should shut up and take a seat.”

Sam pulled out one of the chairs and sat down, grateful when she stubbed out whatever she had been burning and the cloying smoke began to settle a bit. He waited until she had pulled out her own chair and sat next to him before speaking again.

“If your ability is something you were born with, why is all of this necessary?” He motioned to the candles and scattered herbs.

Pam reached for the ring and turned the bag over in her hands, studying it again. “The short answer is that it isn’t. I could try this in the kitchen over lemonade and sandwiches and probably get _something_. But those spirits I mentioned can help. Give me a clearer or more focused answer, and I thought that was something you might want. On my own I could read this and maybe tell you the guy you are looking for is out west somewhere. With the help of the spirit world we can probably get a hell of a lot closer. I’m going to try for his name and the town, but it’s a lot like playing darts -- only drunk and with your feet. These trappings are just rolling out the welcome mat for the powers that be to feel free to lend a hand.”

Sam nodded and sneezed again. “Maybe you could have doubled up on the powder and skipped the poisonous fumes.”

She gave him an exasperated look. “You don’t see me telling you how to do your job, do you, Grumpy? Now sit back , stay quiet, and let’s get this party started.”

Without waiting for a reply, Pam opened the bag and spilled the ring onto her palm. Candlelight gathered on the metal, making it almost appear to glow. She closed her fist around the ring and her eyes fell shut. The air grew heavy and close. Sam saw sweat break out across her forehead as she mouthed things silently to herself. Minutes ticked by while Sam sat in painful silence. There was a growing tension, something almost palpable pushing against him, inside of him. He shifted on his chair, uneasy. Pam’s fist was so tight Sam could see her nails cutting into her skin.

“Pam,” he risked, quietly. She gave no indication she had heard him. Two of the candles flickered in the still air, making shadows dance wildly before steadying. Sam didn’t see a vent of any kind in the room, and felt a cold sweat break out under his shirt. “Pam,” he repeated, louder.

She remained still, lips forming words Sam couldn’t make out. He counted seconds, forcing himself to patience. She was a professional. She knew what she was doing. She hadn’t seemed concerned about trying this. She... remained locked in place as blood welled from her fist and landed on the edge of the map, heavy drops black in the golden light.

That was the line for Sam. He wanted his father’s killer, but he didn’t want to kill anyone else along the way, and the expression on Pam’s face was looking more pained by the second. She hadn’t mentioned bleeding as an integral part of the process, Sam wanted it stopped before things got any worse. If this was normal she could tell him, he would apologize, and they could try again. Maybe over the lemonade and sandwiches she had mentioned. No reason to go the extreme route until they had tried the easy ones.

He wrapped his hand around her fist, meaning to force her to drop the ring. As soon as his skin touched hers the growing pressure in his mind _snapped_ and suddenly he was no longer in the dark, candle-lit room. The world around him was a blur, and then there was a glass counter, and a woman. She had long blond hair and blue eyes and seemed oddly out-of-focus. Things jumped again, dizzyingly, and then paused. Now things were crystal clear, almost in slow motion, even. He could hear spoken words like they were under water, impossible to make out. The same woman, and her hand wrapped around his for an impossibly long second. His chest felt full and aching. Sam recognized the emotion, even if he didn’t recognize the girl.

He’d loved Jessica like that.

Things went dark. Pain was everywhere and for an instant Sam had the incoherent idea that Jessica’s memory had conjured the agony of her loss, but the towering flames weren’t from any apartment fire. The only thing louder than the screaming in his head was the wailing cries of a baby. He looked down and a solemn faced child looked back at him from under a tow-headed mop. The infant clutched in the child’s arms looked half as big as he was, and Sam knew with total certainty the baby was safe there. Something about the scene was ringing alarm bells in the tiny corner of his awareness that was still conscious of himself as separate, but before he could pin it down the world dissolved again into a violent, merciless rage. Flickers of light, images so brief he couldn’t even understand what they showed, the reek of old blood and fresh wounds. And under all of it a pain and fear that made it hard to breath. Choking, pushing, always the struggle. Relentless. And then, in a rain-washed alley, the face he had wanted to see. It was so _real_ that even in the waning sunlight of early evening Sam felt like he could count every freckle and every line. Hard green eyes and firm set lips. Still, expressionless, an endless second to memorize. Sam couldn’t interpret the feelings that welled up this time, everything was jumbled together. Above the man’s head, over the rough edge of the concrete building, the moon was rising in the darkening sky. He felt an unexpected flare of panic, could almost grasp its meaning...

Then darkness. And grief again, but this time it was different. Shaded less with rage and more with regret.

Into that perfect night intruded the blues guitar and southern twang of a modern country-western hit. Sam didn’t know what it was called, but it played in stores when he shopped. Slowly the darkness faded as the music was drowned out by voices and the clinking of glasses and scuff of chairs. The air was heavy with rich beer and grilled food, and the varnished pine wood of the bar stood in stark contrast to the darker wood of the floor. A bartender in a low cut top flashed a generous smile at a man sitting on the end as she slid a shot glass his way. At the other end of the bar a rowdier crowd let out a collective groan as the game playing on the bank of flat screens failed to meet their expectations. One of them yelled out and the bartender abandoned her position by the tap and headed down to take another round of orders. Alone now, the man shrugged off a hoodie and draped it over the empty stool at his side. Somewhere behind Sam a dropped glass exploded like a gun shot and the man at the bar spun to look, expression wary. Sam recognized the killer’s face now, and clenched his hand into an involuntary fist at his side. He forced it to relax... and felt Pamela’s fist open beneath his. The ring hit the table with a metallic clink as Sam’s eyes flew open. The ring rolled across the map in a graceful arc and then abruptly toppled over onto its side.

Pam shook her head as if trying to clear it. She looked like a woman waking up from a nightmare.

“Pam?” Sam asked hoarsely. His own skull felt like it was on fire. She shook her head again, then stumbled out of her chair and walked shakily to the other side of the table to peer down at the ring.

“I don’t know what the hell just happened, Sam, and it’s going to be a cold day somewhere damn hot before I do you another favor, but your boy is apparently living it up around Delcambre, Louisiana. I hope you like swampland.”

  
  
**Chapter Six**

Pam stayed on her feet long enough to blow out the candles and press a bottle of aspirin into Sam’s hand. She dragged a heavy quilt and a pillow from somewhere while Sam washed his face with cold water. When he reemerged from the bathroom, she mumbled that he could have the couch before vanishing into the recesses of the house. It was only about five in the afternoon but Sam was bone tired and didn’t even notice the lumps and springs on the old sofa when he passed out on it.

Sam’s dreams were haunting flashes of visions and memories, and he was grateful when Pam woke him up. Even more grateful that the nauseating pain in his head had mostly subsided, though echoes of it stirred warningly when he moved too fast.

He could have done without the splash of icy water in his face.

“You could have just called my name,” Sam grumbled, wiping at his eyes. Pamela sat the glass down on a side table with unnecessary force and glared at him.

“You’re an asshole. Family trait, is it?”

The flirty professional from the day before had faded into a rumpled, hollow-eyed shadow of her former self. Tight lines of tension creased the corners of her eyes and Pam looked like she hadn’t slept in days.

“I don’t know what--“ he began, genuinely confused as to why she was pissed at him.

“You’re a fucking psychic! You didn’t think that might be important information to share before _leaping into my reading_? The least you could have done was keep your big, clumsy paws to yourself, not throw yourself head first into the middle of everything with no warning!”

“I’m--” was as far as Sam got before she cut him off.

“And I think it’s even more ballsy of your dad to be hunting people like me when his own damn kid can read the tea leaves as well as any of us can. The next time I say he’s a jackass and you do anything but just nod I’m kicking your ass too. Jesus.” She raked hands through her tangled hair and exhaled heavily. “What the hell were you _thinking_?”

Sam sat in stupefied silence for a moment until it became obvious she genuinely expected an answer.

“Pam,” he said with complete sincerity, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

~~~~~~~

“I’m not psychic,” Sam repeated for what felt like the hundredth time since he had woken up. After his earnest insistence he had no clue what was going on, Pamela had managed to get him into the kitchen and fixed them both toaster waffles and tea. She had also set a fifth of whiskey on the counter and Sam wondered if that was part of the usual routine or something special for the occasion. He had been seriously eyeing it for the last ten minutes.

“You are,” Pam said patiently. “What the hell did you think happened yesterday?”

“You were bleeding! You wouldn’t answer me. I just wanted you to drop the ring.”

Her gaze was both heavy and knowing. Sam stubbornly refused to look away. Finally Pam rolled her eyes, winced, and then poured enough whiskey into her tea to top up the glass. “Want some?” she offered. Sam shook his head. He was confused enough; there would be plenty of time for getting hammered later. And probably plenty of reason the way the conversation was going.

“Are you seriously going to try and tell me you didn’t _experience_ anything?”

Sam did look away then, seeking support from the smooth grain of the table. It was pine, and the pale hue of the wood reminded him of the bar in his... vision. “I don’t know how these things work,” he said aloud, “I probably just hitched a ride on what you were seeing.”

Pamela reached out and wrapped strong, slender fingers over his wrist. He started to jerk away from the touch, but... nothing happened. Her skin was dry and warm and came with a complete lack of head-splitting images. She stayed quiet until he had relaxed under her hold.

“Sam,” she said calmly. “I didn’t see anything. That’s not how my gifts work. I feel... impressions, directions. Intuitive leaps in logic and deduction. I don’t get any pictures to go along with that. All I was trying to do was feel out the right impression and link it to the man who made it, to try and get you as close as possible. You stumbling into that was as obvious as a firecracker in a funeral home. You’re messy, and out-of-control, but your gift is strong. Visions are actually pretty rare.”

Sam shook her hand off gently and rubbed his temples. “If it’s a gift, I’d like to return it.”

“Talent, then,” she said with a roll of her eyes.

“I don’t know what to do with this, Pam. I’m not saying I believe you, but I’m willing to... think about it.” Jessica’s death. Weeks of overwhelming dread. The certainty of the phone call. Coincidence, imagination... “I just -- what do you want me to do with this?”

Pamela shrugged and leaned back in her chair. “You don’t _have_ to do anything with it, Sam. It’s yours. It can be a tool or a weapon, just like any other talent. Now it’s been woken up. You might be forced to deal with it on some level, or it might just quiet down and go back to sleep. You won’t know until you’re driving in rush hour traffic and a stripe of sunlight sends you into convulsions.”

“Thanks. That sounds... exciting.”

“Probably more so for the other drivers,” she said with an easy smile. Sam glared, and changed the subject.

“So what else did you get?”

“What do you mean, ‘what else’?” Pam demanded. “I got you his location, Delcambre. What else do you want from me?”

“Unless he’s buried there, that’s only limitedly useful,” Sam growled. “I don’t know who he is, I don’t know where to find him, and I don’t know when he’ll be in town. Am I supposed to just try and draw a picture of him and then flash it around town until someone recognizes it?”

“Are you a good artist?”

“Pam!” Sam slammed down his mug.

“You saw his face. That’s more than you had,” she argued. “Before this you probably would’ve just passed him on the street. Did you see anything else?”

“I saw--“ Sam hesitated. The visions of the previous evening were almost like a fading dream. He could remember pieces, and they had been fragmentary to start with. But that last part, and the end-- “a bar,” he said slowly, forcing his brain to draw it back up. Sam closed his eyes and concentrated. “I saw him in a bar. They were playing country-western music and... he was sitting alone.”

Pamela’s voice was excited when she spoke. “What else was going on?”

Sam’s eyes flew open. “What do you mean ‘what else’?” he echoed her question from before. “I saw the inside of the bar! If it was in Delcambre I can find it and stake it out. He looked pretty comfortable, odds are he’ll turn up eventually and then we can... chat.”

“That’s it?” Pam pressed. “You saw the whole inside of the bar and all it had was this guy sitting in it?”

“What are you after?”

“Just trust me, Sam. I’ve been doing this for a while. What else did you see?”

Sam sighed and closed his eyes again. “The bar itself looked like pine. There were a lot of people in the place, they were loud. There were waitresses serving tables, one of them dropped a glass. On the other end of the bar were a bunch of guys watching a game, the bartender didn’t look like she liked them much. Maybe they were bad tippers.” Sam opened his eyes. “Was that helpful?”

Pam looked at him like he was an especially disappointing puppy. Sam frowned, knowing he was missing something, and wishing his headache hadn’t renewed itself so that he could _think_. “What?”

“You said the guys were watching a game. Do you mean like pool, or like sports on television?”

“On television.”

Her eyes bored into him. The light bulb went off and Sam groaned, then smiled fiercely. “I’ve fucking got him.”

“As long as you can figure out what game it was,” she agreed. “Did you see enough detail?”

Sam considered. The images were a wash of moving color and green field, but given some time and the internet -- “Yeah. I can figure it out.”

“Then you’d better get cracking, Sparky,” Pam said as she pushed away from the table and stood up. “Visions are fleeting and erratic things. You might have lucked out and gotten what you wanted, but if that game was on last night you’re still SOL.”

“Where’re you going?” Sam asked as she set her plate on the counter and headed for the living room.

“Back to bed. You have fun. We’ll talk again when I can see straight. And the next time you want something from me it had better be a cup of sugar, got it?”

“What about if I have money?”

Pam paused in the doorway. “What _about_ if you have money? You know where the guy is, what else do you need?”

“Just an idea. It can wait until you wake up.”

She gave him a suspicious glance, but refrained from comment. Sam stole her tea cup and downed the last few sips, then grabbed his laptop from the rental car and settled onto the couch to do research. He still wasn’t sure he believed her about the psychic thing, but wherever it had come from the vision was the only lead he had to find the killer. He was going to run with it as far as he could.

  
  
**Chapter Seven**

“Next Sunday.”

Pam paused on the stairs and eyed him. “Pardon?”

“The game they were watching.” Sam closed the laptop decisively. “It’s next Sunday. Or several years ago, but that does me no good so I’m going to go with--“

“Next Sunday,” she finished. “Good job, Grumpy. Now you just have to scout every bar in the region until you find the right one.”

“Assuming it’s even in Delcambre,” Sam agreed, struggling to ignore doubts and a sense of futility that had haunted him all morning. He needed a few hours of real sleep, not uneasy dream-plagued restlessness, to regain his equilibrium.

“Welcome to the psychic business, Kiddo. All uncertainty, all the time,” Pam said. “You get used to it,” she added as she caught the annoyed expression on Sam’s face. “What are you going to do after you find the guy anyway? Ask him nicely why he pulled the trigger and if he doesn’t mind following you down some dark ally?”

“Something like that. How much do you know about recreational drugs?”

She frowned. “Are we talking about a little weed or something more like liquid Drano? Considering what we’re talking about, you need to narrow ‘recreational’ down a little.”

Sam tilted his head back against the couch, trying to work out a kink from hours of sitting hunched over the computer. “I’m going to find him in a bar. I can try just following him and waiting for the right moment -- but if I lose him I might not get another chance. It seems like it might be easier just to strike up a conversation and slip something in his drink. He’s doing shots, no one’s going to be terribly suspicious if he gets a little unsteady on his feet and has to be helped outside by a friend. Once I get him in the car I can... do whatever I need to.”

Pam looked thoughtful. “I think I can get you what you want. Go pick us up some lunch while I make some calls. I’ll leave the door unlocked if I have to run out while you’re gone.”

~~~~~~~

Sam wasn’t terribly familiar with the Atlanta area Pamela lived in, but it wasn’t that hard to find local restaurants in a suburban neighborhood. Pam hadn’t indicated a preference for food choice so Sam pulled into the parking lot of the Chinese take-out and ordered a variety of numbers from the menu. He figured if she couldn’t find something she liked out of that then they could just call out for pizza.

She was sitting in the kitchen flipping through a magazine when Sam let himself back in.

“Do you always leave the door unlocked when you’re home?”

Pam looked surprised at the question. “Have you seen my neighborhood?” She pulled the bag open and started setting out cartons. “Grab some plates from that cabinet to your left.”

“I’ve hunted a lot of bad things in places that looked just like this.”

“Were they the kind of things that were strongly deterred by locks?” she asked pointedly. “I’m a big girl, Sam. I can take care of myself.”

Sam had to admit to himself that locks would barely slow down most of the things he would be concerned about, but it still seemed irritatingly careless. He could hear his dad’s voice in his head lecturing on basic safety. He sighed and pulled a couple of forks from the dish drainer.

“What’s eating you now?” Pam asked.

“Just...” Sam shrugged.

She offered him the lo mien. “You’ve got a lot going on. Try to keep your chin up or the crap will bury you before you have time to blink.”

“It’s been a bad year,” was all Sam said, not wanting to get into the fire and Jessica’s death, the fight with his dad and their reconciliation, and even less his feelings of isolation and rootlessness. And now Pam’s insistence that he was some kind of psychic on top of everything else. It was enough for the moment to be sitting in a friend’s kitchen sharing a meal and he tried to convey that with a reassuring smile.

Pamela snorted. “Try that one again after a few days of sleep and some serious uppers, Sam. You’d depress my aunt Milly right now and she’s been dead twenty years.”

“Thanks,” Sam said dryly.

“No charge.”

They ate in companionable silence until most of the food had been demolished. Sam chased the last noodle off his plate and sat back in his chair. “Did you make any headway earlier?”

“On what?”

“You know, getting the stuff.”

“Stuff?” Pam raised an eyebrow.

Sam gave her a mild glare. “This isn’t fun for me, Pam.”

“When the fun starts, you let me know.” She stood up and opened one of the drawers by the sink then set a tiny glass vial of clear liquid on the table in front of him. Sam picked it up.

“This is it?”

“You could drink it and find out,” Pam suggested with an inviting smile.

Sam ignored that. “Are you sure it’s enough?”

“It’s enough. That’s actually two doses, in case you screw up the first time and want to take another run. My source knows her business. Just pour half of it in his drink when he isn’t looking. I told her based on your description we were talking about a reasonably athletic guy of at least average height, and you wanted him... compliant. She said that as long as your target isn’t allergic this should mess pretty severely with his head. The guy might pass out on you, but he won’t be in any shape to put up a fight. There’re also always the side risks of nausea, coma and death -- but I didn’t think those would be deal breakers in this particular case.”

Sam closed his hand around the tiny vial, a set expression on his face. “No, those aren’t anything I can’t live with.”

~~~~~~~

“So, that’s it then?” Pam asked him the next morning as he was zipping his laptop into its case. His sleep had been as restless as the previous night’s, and it left Sam feeling almost as exhausted as he had been when he laid down in the first place. His eyes itched like there were full of sand and all he really wanted to do was curl back up on the couch. But there was too much to do, and little time to do it.

“Yeah. I know when to find him, and as much of a plan as I can get together at this point. Now I just need to identify the where and scout out the area.”

“For a good place to dump a body.”

“For a lot of things, Pam.”

“You’re just going to creep up on this guy, drug him, drag him out into the woods, beat some answers out of him, and then put a bullet in his head?” she pressed.

Sam’s jaw tightened. “Pretty much.”

“And you’re okay with this?”

“I owe my dad this, and one less murderer in the world won’t keep me up at nights. Right at this moment I’m more concerned about this psychic crap.”

“It’s what you make of it. Like I said, it might just go quietly back to sleep.”

Sam sighed. “I’d have to be someone a hell of a lot luckier than I seem to be lately to catch that kind of break. I don’t even know if I believe you, but just in case... do I need to be doing anything? I’m not going to wake up one morning possessed by the inhabitants of the local haunted house or anything, am I?”

“It’s more like having a window in your mind where other people only have walls. You can see out, and other things can see in, but only a little. To get more of a connection you’d have to actually open it.”

“Any way I can get some really good curtains on this window?”

“I’m serious, Sam.”

“So am I,” he sighed.

She rolled her eyes.

“Just... don’t go messing with it and you should be fine.”

“Define ‘fine,’ assuming that it doesn’t quiet down on its own.”

“The most likely things you’ll pick up are like what I described last night. Intuition, leaps of logic. Maybe some emotions from people around you. Little things, nothing world-shattering.”

“But no voices or disembodied beings trying to hijack my skull?”

“That would be more like demonic possession. I don’t think you have to worry about that.”

Sam slid the strap on the case over his shoulder. “At this rate, I will by next week.”

“I didn’t say anything before, I was hoping... I don’t know what I was hoping. But I have a terrible feeling about this, Sam. It’s just... I think there’s a lot more to this.”

Sam frowned. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” she shrugged. “It’s just what I feel. There’s more going on here than a random murder, and you know what they say about the devil in the details.”

“I can’t make decisions based on vague feelings and maybes, Pam. I have to move on what I have, there isn’t time and I may never get another chance.”

“I know. Good luck. I wasn’t your dad’s number one fan, but that doesn’t mean I wanted to see him gunned down either. I hope you get this guy. Try not to get killed in the process.”

“Thank you.”

Pamela followed him to the door, expression pensive but said nothing. She stopped in the doorway and crossed her arms, watching as he made his way down the steps. Her position reminded him of something and he hesitated. “What you were saying when I first got here, about how I’d changed. What did you mean?”

There was something less than happy in the look that she gave him. “Before, you weren’t a killer.”

  
  
**Chapter Eight**

Delcambre was a rambling town set against the bayou, populated with aging chain link fences and clapboard houses. There was evidence that it had weathered rough times and might not be quite through with them yet, but the people seemed friendly and the properties relatively well maintained. Ancient sprawling trees dominated the mainland, fading to the scrubbier overhang of the swamps. Multiple docks and bait shops littered the margins if town. It was obvious that the majority of the local economy was based around the bayou, and Sam imagined half the population was out on the water at any given moment.

Finding a bar in Delcambre wasn’t hard, but the _right_ bar remained frustratingly elusive. After two days Sam expanded his search to the larger nearby cities of Erath, Abbeville, and then New Iberia. Finally, on Sunday afternoon with nothing to show after days of carefully planned and executed searches; he decided to gamble on Pamela’s insistence that he had some kind of “ability” and pulled the car off the road under the canopy of the trees. She had told him he had a gift that might work through intuition, subtle magics of suggestion and instinct, so Sam set his hands on the steering wheel, closed his eyes and tried to clear his mind. After a few minutes of trying to force clarity without coming to any revelations, other than feeling like an idiot, he turned the car back on and just... drove. He chose roads that meandered west and south. Within an hour he passed at least two buildings with flickering neon and dusty parking lots that caught his attention but brought with them a wavering feeling of... wrongness. Sam ground his teeth and drove on.

He could always come back.

The feeling eased twenty minutes later, on the outskirts of Intercoastal City, just as another roadside bar came into view on the right. No signs marked it from the road, but the parking lot was so full cars were parked along the street. The hand painted sign over the porch read “Mike’s.” Sam checked his watch, the game had just started. If this was the right place...

He shouldered his way in through a crowd of people chatting around the door and stopped dead just over the threshold with a tangible sense of déjà vu. The music was wrong, and there were only a couple of guys watching the game. Most of the patrons were lingering at pool tables on the other side of the room or ensconced in booths and at tables. But the dark wood of the floor and the varnished pine of the bar were perfect... and so was the man seated alone at the quiet end of the bar. One of the overhead lights had burned out leaving him in shadow, and Sam could only see his back, but it was the guy. It was absolutely him. Sam wrapped nervous fingers around the tiny vial in his pocket to reassure himself he was ready. At the bar, the stranger turned a little and leaned back on an elbow, surveying the crowd while he sipped a beer. Sam looked away, then realized there was nothing more out of place than a guy standing alone in the middle of the entrance looking studiously elsewhere, and managed to find an empty corner table.

He had seen the man’s features in the vision at Pam’s house, but it hadn’t really registered to Sam that the man was... good looking. Really very good looking, and probably not hanging around a bar alone on a Friday night with intentions to stay that way. Sam didn’t have a good plan for how exactly to get the drug in his target’s drink, assuming that he’d have to work that detail out once he was in place. The guy had been alone in his vision, but there was no reason to think that was a permanent state. Maybe his date had gone to the bathroom, maybe he was about to walk up to someone and suggest a quieter venue. Sam had only seen a few seconds after all, and there were plenty of unattached women in the bar that were casting speculative eyes around. Sam felt a twinge of cold panic that everything he had done could collapse just that easily.

It was going to be a lot harder to drug someone and smuggle him out, if there was another person invested in his welfare.

“What can I get you?” Sam looked up startled. A bored looking waitress was standing at his elbow, waiting expectantly. Sam recognized her.

“Aren’t you the bartender?” he asked before thinking, still caught up in his rapid reevaluation of the situation. She looked a little surprised and gave him a closer look, which made Sam swear internally. Making an impression on other people was definitely not in his plan. He forced himself to keep a friendly smile on his face.

“Yeah,” she shrugged after a moment. “But not for about half an hour. Linda and I trade off. Keeps the evening less tedious, you know? I don’t recognize you though, come here often?”

“Sometimes,” Sam shrugged a little noncommittally. “I’ll take whatever’s popular on tap.”

“Decisive kind of guy, aren’t you?”

Sam really wanted her to go away. “I like to try things.”

When she was gone Sam went back to studying his target... who, in the reflection from the mirrored wall behind the bar, seemed to be studying him back. Sam’s heart hammered in his chest and he looked casually away and took a long pull of the beer the waitress had set in front of him. He was afraid to look back up in case the man was still watching him, but when he went up to the bar to get a refill about fifteen minutes later the guy seemed absorbed in watching a game of darts and gave Sam only the most casual of glances. He was still nursing the beer he’d been drinking when Sam walked in, and Sam considered the merits of knocking something off the bar to see if the guy would reach down to pick it up for him.

It could be that fast, Sam could see it in his mind. The vial was tiny, and Pam swore its content was undetectable in alcohol. Sadly, there was nothing conveniently located for a casual ‘accident.’ This close and Sam could smell the clean scent of the guy‘s aftershave. A deep sense of rage welled up and he had to wrestle down the sudden desire just to haul off and punch the guy. It would be momentarily satisfying, but ultimately pointless.

The bartender slid a refill in front of him and Sam impulsively slid onto the stool one down from the guy. Opportunity wouldn’t matter if he wasn’t close enough to take advantage of it. He could feel the weight of the man’s appraisingly glance and tried to focus his own attention on what was happening on the screen at the other end of the bar. It was a bad angle, but better than counting liquor bottles on the shelves.

A few minutes passed and Sam, still hyper aware of the guy sitting barely two feet away, felt himself slowly relax into the ambiance of the room.

“You could see better if you sat closer.”

“Sorry?” was all Sam could think to say as he turned to face the target of his hunt.

“The game,” the guy nodded towards the screen. “You could see it better if you sat closer. Can you even see the score from there?”

He really couldn’t. “I can see enough.”

The corner of the man’s lips quirked up as he turned his attention back to his beer. Sam tried to think of something to say to continue the conversation, but only managed a lame, “Do you, uh, like watching sports?”

The guy looked back at him, there seemed to be a hint of genuine amusement in his eyes this time and Sam figured that had to be a good thing.

“If I did, I’d sit closer to the television.” Which effectively killed that line of conversation. But the guy took mercy on Sam and threw him a bone. “I don’t remember seeing you around here before.”

“I’m from out of town. Just wanted to get a drink and it seemed like a popular place. Always a good sign, you know?”

“Yeah,” the man agreed. “I do a lot of traveling myself. You here for work?”

Sam shrugged. “I’m a student. School’s still on break and I was passing by, thought I would stop and check out the local sites.”

“I hope you like gators and crawfish,” the man snorted. “Not much else around here.” He swept Sam with another assessing look, then stuck out a hand. “Dean Young.”

Sam took it with a smile and hoped the brittle edges were well hidden. “Sam Smith.”

“Really?” Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Really,” Sam said firmly.

Dean took his beer and slid onto the seat next to Sam. “Some parents, huh?”

Parents were not something Sam thought he could discuss with Dean and remain civil so he changed the topic. “Do you live around here?”

“It’s a little bit of a drive,” Dean said easily, “but I like the joint, and there aren’t really any good places to get a drink near my place. Tall stories and moonshine, sure, but it’s not the kind of joint you can really get out and meet people.”

“Is that what you’re doing down on the end of the bar by yourself, meeting people?” Sam asked dryly.

Dean smiled and Sam saw something in the green eyes that raised a hint of unease. “I seem to be.”

Right. “So, what kind of work are you in?”

Dean finished off his beer and signaled for another. “Private contracting, mostly.”

Of course he was. “Like engineering?”

“Like a variety of things.” Dean’s tone indicated he wasn’t going to welcome more questions on the subject and Sam let it lie. If “contracting” was Dean’s clever way of saying he killed people for money, then the question and answer session Sam had planned for later might take more time than he had thought. It was entirely possible the guy had been paid to kill John, and Sam could be looking at doing this entire thing all over again to reach the bastard who had paid for the hit. He hid the surge of disappointment behind his own glass and had his friendly mask firmly back in place when he set the beer down.

Sam wasn’t sure where to steer the conversation to keep Dean’s interest, but his willingness to listen seemed to be all that Dean needed to launch into a series of stories, each one more wildly improbable than the last, that had Sam smiling with genuine amusement despite himself. According to Dean, he had been everywhere, done everything, and no woman could resist his charm. Apparently no man either -- Sam sobered abruptly when he realized the conquest of the current story had decidedly less curves. Dean was still narrating as his hands sketched out a fish of ridiculous proportions, but his attention on Sam seemed unusually focused. It took Sam a minute to grab the thread.

“Wait, you said that was in his _aquarium_?”

“The freaking thing was as long as his living room!”

“And he just pulled it out and carved it up? For dinner?”

Dean shook his head in disgust. “It even had a name. He kept talking about how delicious ‘Bethany’ was.”

“I can’t believe you ate that.”

“It wasn’t the worst thing I had in my mouth that night, and he did have a fine ass.” Dean chuckled and seemed to be waiting for a reaction. Sam wasn’t sure what to give him and finally settled for a grin and shake of his head. Dean seemed appeased by that and launched into his next story, leaving Sam free to do nothing but smile and nod and hope that all the beer Dean was consuming would eventually have the usual effect. He was horrified with himself to realize that he was actually enjoying Dean’s company. There was something about his presence that just felt... natural.

It seemed a small eternity before Dean stretched and slid off the stool. “Gotta hit the head, watch my drink for me? The barmaid around here is a little quick with the clean-up.” Sam nodded and raised his own glass in salute.

He watched Dean vanish past a bank of payphones down a dimly lit hallway, then steadied his nerves and pulled the vial from his pocket. One quick twist took the cap off, then Sam just casually reached over as if he was stretching out and like that it was done. He twisted the cap back and tucked the vial into his pocket again. He stomach was tied in knots and adrenaline had his hands shaking. Dean sauntered back out of the bathroom a few minutes later and took his seat. He seemed to be in a more somber mood than he had been, and kept giving Sam odd, sidelong looks. Unfortunately he also showed no interest in finishing his beer and the minutes passed in agony as Sam tried to stay calm and relaxed. At least on the surface.

Abruptly Dean stood and stretched. “Well, I think that’s probably about it for me tonight.”

It was barely ten o’clock and the beer was still sitting untouched. Sam had to quell a surge of alarm. “You want to finish your drink?”

Dean glanced at the half-full glass of amber liquid, Sam thought he saw something calculating flicker in the cool green eyes, but then it was gone and Dean’s attention returned to his face. Sam struggled to keep the worry and first hints of panic from his own expression. There was no way Dean could know about the drug, no reason he wouldn’t be willing to down the rest of the beer he’d been enjoying for the last hour. Calm, casual, everything was going fine--

“No.”

Or not so fine. Shit.

“I’ve had enough of this place.” Dean shrugged his jacket on and fished a couple of bills from his wallet. Sam watched as Dean slid the wallet into his threadbare back pocket. He had to think of something. If he failed now he wasn’t going to get a second chance, but short of just pulling his blade from the sheath at his ankle and going for Dean’s throat, which lacked a certain requisite subtlety, Sam was at a loss. There had to be something he could do, something to convince Dean to stay... His desperate plotting was interrupted by a warm hand that rested briefly over his own, before sliding away. Sam looked up, startled, and found his gaze trapped by Dean’s. The green eyes were still cold, but there was an... interest in them that opened up a world of possibilities. Bad, bad possibilities. Suddenly the last few stories and the assessing looks made a lot more sense.

“If you’re still thirsty, I have liquor back at my place,” Dean suggested.

Sam was frozen, speechless. It was the opportunity he needed, but all of his instincts were screaming at him to refuse. “I...” he began, before trailing off, unsure what he wanted to say. Dean’s expression shuttered.

“I’ll see you around then.” He turned away and started threading his way towards the door. Sam swore internally and downed the rest of his glass, then hurried after him, catching up at the door. Dean raised an eyebrow.

“Are you gonna drop me off at my motel afterwards?” Sam asked.

“I’ll give you a ride back in the morning,” Dean promised. Sam caught the measuring glance Dean gave him and nodded, forcing his mouth into something approximating a smile. It must have worked because Dean gave an oddly sardonic half smile of his own and led Sam to a dark corner of the lot. The familiarity of the classic car he unlocked made Sam pause a minute as memories assaulted him. His dad had driven a ’67 Impala for years. Dean opened the passenger door and gestured Sam to climb in. The car even smelled like his childhood and he had to force himself to relax into the worn, leather upholstery. The tiny vial tucked in his pocket felt like a lead weight. There was barely half left, he’d only have one more chance to do the job and he silently thanked Pamela’s foresight that he even had that. If he botched it then things would get dicey. Sam had reach, and estimated a better advantage in height and sheer muscle, but Dean almost matched him in both categories, and had an unknown amount of experience to back it up. Sam’s only real advantage might be surprise, and the odds weren’t much in his favor.

  
  
**Chapter Nine**

The ride out to Dean’s house was filled with easy conversation, safe topics like food and the unseasonable weather. When those fell into a companionable silence Dean turned on the tape deck and Sam was assaulted by a fresh round of déjà vu.

“I wouldn’t have taken you for a Metallica fan,” Sam commented a few minutes later in the silence between songs. And he wouldn’t have, it seemed... messy. At odds with the slick touch that had so far marked everything about the killer at his side. It reminded Sam of childhood, riding beside his dad down long, empty highways. He’d always played stuff like that.

“Only the classics. The new stuff is trash.”

Sam nodded in agreement as the car sped deeper into the night.

Dean’s house was more of what Sam expected. Set off the road, he could hear the singing of frogs and the musical rush of flowing water sliding against the bank somewhere nearby. The house itself had more huge panes of glass than Sam himself would have been comfortable with, but they accented nicely the pale woods and stainless steel of the interior. The furniture was heavy, natural woods and everything he could see was modern, orderly, and strictly arranged. Even the remote control for the flat-screen television mounted on one wall was lined up perfectly with the edge of the coffee table it sat on.

The hands on his shoulders made him jump.

“Easy, just thought you might want to take off your coat.”

“Yeah, sorry. Just--“ Sam swallowed. “You said something about a drink?”

Dean shrugged off his own jacket and held out his hand for Sam’s, then draped them both over the back of the couch. Sam watched to make sure nothing fell out of the pocket. He didn’t want to give up the jacket but didn’t see any reasonable way out of it. He wished he’d had the foresight to shove the bottle into his jeans pocket, but he was having trouble focusing. Things were moving fast and in unanticipated directions.

“Why don’t you let me give you the tour first?” Dean’s smile was inviting, warm, and didn’t reach his eyes. “I don’t entertain many visitors.”

Sam didn’t want a tour. He didn’t even want a drink. He just wanted Dean to pull out some glasses and give him a few seconds alone with them. He wanted this over with, he wanted to go home. Back to his boring life of books, and school, and be done with anything to do with murder and death. But he couldn’t have that unless he did this first.

He forced an answering smile. “That sounds great.”

Dean's smile broadened. “I was hoping you'd say that.” He gestured towards an alcove, guiding Sam to examine a painting with a hand on his shoulder. Sam was painfully aware of the gentle contact, the warmth of Dean’s hand soaking through his t-shirt and into his own skin. He nodded when Dean spoke and took in almost nothing. But after that painting, there was another, and then another. Then a long swath of woven fabric framed and hung in a hallway, a statue carved of ivory, and another of stone, and then... a dark room. Dean flipped a switch and recessed lighting showed the smooth, even grains of a furniture set that matched the living room, a few tasteful watercolors, and a hand-woven rug in colors like the sea.

All Sam really took in was the bed.

It seemed impossibly large, head and footboards as tasteful and expensive as every other item in the house, and covered with a deep blue comforter that would have looked inviting anywhere else. As it was, Sam stopped dead a few feet into the room and licked dry lips. “I could really use that drink now.”

He could feel Dean’s heat against his back, and then a hand steadied itself on his hip and lips brushed against the side of his throat. “How about later.” Dean’s voice in his ear was low and thick, breath warm and scented faintly with the alcohol he’d been drinking earlier. He tugged Sam back by his belt loop until Sam was feeling more than just heat as Dean molded their bodies together.

Sam wanted to twist free and attack, to slam his fist right into Dean’s face and keep hitting him until he was broken and bloody and so, so sorry. But if he would just be patient, just do what he had to and stay the course, he could do it right. There wouldn’t be more than one chance. Throwing his own life away wouldn’t accomplish anything. He’d made a promise, and if this was the price of his revenge... Dean nuzzled at his throat and slipped a hand around his waist while Sam focused on relaxing into the unwanted embrace. One hand pulled his t-shirt out of his jeans and slipped under it, roaming over his belly before dipping just under his waistband. Fingers were undoing his belt and the snap of his jeans and the other hand was lower, much lower, cupping him and rolling one thumb gently over the crown.

“You don’t feel like you’re enjoying yourself,” Dean said.

“It’s the weather,” Sam muttered, feeling his cock start to harden in Dean’s hand despite himself. “I don’t like thunderstorms.”

Dean chuckled, the sound sending a not-unpleasant puff of warm air against the damp skin he had been nuzzling.

“We’ll have to see what we can do to distract you.”

“I don’t...” Sam paused to swallow. He hated to admit a weakness, but it was going to be pretty damned obvious to Dean in a few minutes and admitting it up front might make things easier. “I don’t have a lot of experience with, uh--” Dean’s hand between his legs was starting to short circuit some of Sam’s ability to think clearly, he unconsciously leaned back and spread them wider to give Dean more room, “--guys.”

“Why’d you come home with me then?” Dean's other hand found a nipple and gave it an experimental squeeze. Sam sucked in a breath.

“My, uh, girlfriend dumped me. I thought...”

“You thought you’d try the other side of the street for a while?” He didn’t sound upset, more like amused. Sam took it as a good sign. If he was amused, he probably wasn’t suspicious. If he wasn’t suspicious, there was still a good chance Sam could complete his mission.

“I... yeah. Why not, you know?”

“Right. Why not?” Dean echoed. He released Sam and stepped back, Sam turned to face him. “How about you get yourself undressed and I’ll go fix those drinks?”

“Uh...” Sam stared helplessly as Dean winked and slipped out of the room. Alone in the bedroom, Sam raked frustrated fingers through his hair and sat on the edge of the bed, considering his options. Which seemed to boil down to finding some excuse to join Dean in the other room and trying to spike his drink, or... do as he was told; strip down, and get through the night. The morning after would almost certainly bring more opportunities. He could get up early and cook or something. His girlfriends had always liked that, he didn’t see why Dean wouldn’t. It was a normal, non-suspicious type of thing.

If he was more confident he could go into the living room and seduce Dean into distraction right now, get his hands on the glasses, and his coat, and--

“Here.” A tumbler of amber liquid was pushed into his hand. Sam flashed a reflexive smile and swallowed hard. Sometime between leaving the room and returning Dean had managed to lose his shirt and was dressed only in unbuttoned jeans and a frown. He held his own glass loosely in his hand. Not that Sam could do anything about it from here anyways. “You don’t listen very well, do you?”

“What?”

Dean motioned to Sam’s clothes. “This looks a lot like what I left you in.”

“Oh, yeah.” Sam downed the liquor in his glass, then set the tumbler down on the bedside table and peeled his shirt up with one easy movement. Dean whistled low in appreciation and held his own glass out to Sam.

“You look like you might need another.” Sam hesitated, remembering his own plan. Dean smiled and set it down on the table next to the empty glass. “It’s there if you want it.”

“Okay, thank--“ The word cut off as a strong, callused hand cupped the side of his face and warm lips pressed against his own. Sam felt a brush of tongue and opened his mouth obediently, deciding in one rush to just go with it. Dean was a good looking guy, and he seemed to know what he was doing. Sam was sure he'd done worse things on a hunt than sleep with a guy. Maybe not a guy that was his father’s killer, but if he could just ignore that for a few minutes... The image of John’s lifeless body bleeding out onto the sidewalk flashed behind his eyes and he pulled back with a grimace. Dean was sitting on the edge of the mattress beside him, and his voice was rough when he spoke.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Sam muttered, “just...”

“You’re not having a heterosexual freak out are you?”

“What? Uh, no. I don’t think so. Just a headache.”

“I don’t hear that often.”

“It’s not like that.”

“Of course it isn’t.” Dean walked over and flipped off the overhead light, then turned on the bedside lamp, leaving the room awash in a more intimate glow. Rushing water from somewhere just beyond the massive window filled Sam’s ears. The shadows of the room seemed impossibly deep and drowning. Dean took his seat on the bed again and ran a hand gently down Sam’s thigh. “Why don’t you just relax a little and let me see what I can do to make you feel better?”

"Like what?"

"I've been told I give a pretty mean massage." Dean grinned. "Lie down on your stomach and I'll show you." Dean fished a small bottle from the nightstand. In the dim lamplight the oil glowed a warm ginger color.

Sam hesitated. "What about the sheets?"

Dean's hand settled on his thigh again, a warm point of contact that seemed to swallow Sam's ability to concentrate. Or panic. "Sam. This is supposed to be fun. If you want to leave..."

Sam had a sudden vision of Dean dropping him back off in the bar parking lot.

"No, of course I don't. A massage sounds great." He scooted back further onto the bed and stretched out on his belly. Dean chuckled, and Sam felt the mattress move as Dean kicked off his jeans and climbed up alongside him.

"Sorry, it's not as warm as I'd like. It'll heat up fast though."

Sam lay still as liquid pooled in the middle of his back, spilling the faint scent of sandalwood into the room. He heard the faint pop of the cap as Dean closed the bottle and then strong hands settled onto his skin. After a few minutes it was obvious Dean hadn't lied about his skill and the oil wasn't the only thing heating up fast. Dean's hands glided over his skin, finding just the right places to press and rub to melt Sam under him. As Dean worked the muscles of his shoulders and back, other parts of Sam started to take more of an interest.

He didn't know how much time passed before those hands began to work their way past his waist. The first few strokes were hesitant, but seemed to take Sam's lack of protest as the invitation it was and began working down his lower body. By the time Dean's hands slid back up over oil-slicked skin Sam was past being concerned over details and twisted against the sheets, reaching down to relieve the pressure in his aching cock. He growled in wordless frustration when Dean grabbed his arm, preventing the move, then stopped resisting and turned over at Dean's prodding. It was a good decision as Dean immediately wrapped one of his hands around Sam's cock and squeezed with _just_ the right pressure.

The rain pounded against the glass and thunder rumbled in the distance. Dean touched him, stroking his cock smoothly, getting the rhythm right. Relaxed from the massage and feeling strangely peaceful, Sam let himself forget for a few minutes about death and pain, that he was in Dean's bed to do a job, and none of this was real. The touch felt good. Being touched at all felt good. It had been a year since he'd spent this much time with any one person, and there was something _about_ Dean, something elusive and compelling that was giving him a sense of safety he _knew_ was false.

Dean’s voice was low, soothing. He leaned up, moved to straddle Sam’s thighs and met his eyes.

“You like that?”

“Yeah,” Sam breathed out.

“I’m going to do more. You okay with that?” Green eyes, steady and calm. Sam rolled his shoulders, not a shrug, exactly. Easing more deeply into the amazing bed.

“Let’s try… this.”

Dean’s free hand, which had been resting lightly on Sam’s hip, ran down the outside of his leg and then up the inside. He pressed gently and Sam moved, spread his legs, going with it. The heat of fingers behind his balls, where Jessica – she’d been outgoing and flirty but not what you’d call sexually adventurous – had never gone. Those fingers slid down the smooth skin, making Sam shudder, and then paused.

“Okay?”

Sam nodded and shifted, spread his legs further. Dean was being surprisingly gentle in his exploration. Even though Sam had already agreed to sex, Dean’s approach was building honest anticipation. Seducing him with slow, skillful touches and enthusiasm.

“Hang on.”

Dean moved and reached, his hand leaving Sam’s cock. Sam had a heartbeat to miss the touch before he was back, a bottle in his hand. Sam saw that the liquid inside was clear and guessed what it was. Lubricant.

Dean caught something in Sam’s expression. “This’ll make things easier.”

Sam took a deep breath and let it out slowly, wondering if Dean would take offense if he refused. Before he made a decision either way Dean shuffled down a bit and bent over him, one finger carefully circling Sam’s hole, drizzling lube over it. It wasn’t cold, just barely cool enough to feel the difference, but now Dean moved with pressure against the tender skin, and Sam felt a slight burn as a finger began to push in. He stiffened; suddenly unsure he wanted to just go with this.

“Easy there. Easy.” Dean’s reassurance helped calm Sam’s nerves. “I’ll make it better.” He ducked his head and began nuzzling along Sam’s stomach. He licked over the point Sam’s hip, sucked on it hard. Sam gasped and moved, cock hard and heavy. Thick wetness oozed over the head and down the shaft. Without warning Dean opened his mouth and slid it down over Sam’s cock.

Sam cried out, grabbing the pillow under his head so he wouldn’t grab at Dean’s short hair. There probably wasn’t enough of it to get a good hold anyhow.

Dean hummed briefly and Sam shuddered again. Dean’s mouth was so hot, so wet. It felt better than anything. It wasn’t long before he was panting, hips jerking, fighting the urge to thrust. Dean slid back long enough to say “I’m good. Go for it.” Sam groaned and immediately began thrusting, carefully at first; short and controlled. Then he felt Dean’s finger, Dean’s finger that was inside him, start moving as it slipped deeper. It stung and suddenly his body lit up, heat rushing through him.

“Jesus Christ!”

Dean looked up at him, eyes bright and amused. He hummed again and Sam’s hips pumped harder, his cock going deeper. Dean’s throat opened up around him and he slid until he felt himself hit the back of it and groaned again, louder. Dean decided that was a good time to add another finger and Sam felt that same unexpected surge of heat rush over him with the discomfort.

It went on and on, Sam lost track of everything but the heat around his dick and the hit caused by Dean’s clever, clever fingers. His orgasm was pooling in his belly, tightening him and he could almost taste it, he was so close.

Dean pulled off, pulled his fingers out, and sat up on his knees, wiping his mouth with almost delicate movement. He looked down at Sam, seeming pleased with what he’d done, but there was still a question in his eyes.

“What?” Sam gasped out, short of breath. Dean slid his hand back down between Sam’s thighs, brushing over the muscle there again.

“You know you want to.” He grinned.

Sam barely hesitated; everything else had just felt so, so good. “Yes.”

That was enough for Dean. Need must have been riding him hard because he moved quickly back between Sam’s legs, slicked up his fingers and pushed them back in without ceremony. Gasping, Sam accepted the mix of pleasure and pain, lifting his legs to give Dean more room.

Dean stroked him with his free hand and worked another finger in. Sam felt impossibly full and knew that Dean’s cock was thicker than three fingers. Another stab of nerves, swiftly suppressed. The rain continued outside, occasional rolls of thunder fading into the distance.

Dean pulled his fingers out and poured lube over his straining cock. “I’ll try not to hurt you, but first times are the worst. Just do what I say, okay?”

Lost for words, Sam nodded in agreement. He gripped the bedspread with both hands, hanging on.

Dean moved closer, taking one of Sam’s legs and putting it around his waist. He urged the other out to the side, then took his cock in one hand and pressed it against Sam, gentle pressure, a preview of what was coming. A sudden hard shove, Dean holding his legs tight, probably leaving bruises. Sam ground his teeth, the pain immediate and harsh. Dean must have seen it in his face, he paused and held still. It looked like it hurt him to do it.

“Bear down,” he said. “Just... bear down, it’ll help.”

It sounded counterintuitive, but Sam was in no position to argue. He forced his body to follow Dean’s direction and Dean, somehow, slid in deeper. The burn didn’t really get better, but it didn’t get worse either.

It went like that for a few minutes, Dean waiting and Sam pushing and progress being made. Then he felt Dean’s balls on his ass and Sam exhaled heavily, relieved.

“Not as bad now?” Dean asked. He was shining with sweat. His restraint had probably cost him and Sam appreciated it, more than he could say. The burn was fading now and he had a few seconds to catalogue and consider the sensations; too full, achy, hot – then Dean was dragging himself back out again. Sam heard him add another splash of lube before he pushed back in and then he was moving, a slow, deep rhythm. After a few thrusts Sam began to move with him, and gradually it began to feel pretty good. Dean flashed him a quick grin and then frowned in concentration a moment before sliding his cock against something that made Sam catch his breath.

“Fuck, yeah,” he groaned. “That, do _that_.”

There was a low, rough chuckle but Sam was too busy being blown away to look at him.

“That’s it – that’s a good boy,” Dean muttered. “Take it, like that. Yeah.”

The words made Sam’s face hotter, but they also made his dick harder. He gave in to the need he’d been fighting and reached to grab his cock, pulling it almost roughly, the friction a touch abrasive.

“No, here – none of this should hurt. Like this.” Dean closed a hand still slick with lube around Sam’s. The lube rubbed onto Sam’s hand and his strokes evened out, smoother, and the pleasure flared even brighter. Dean sat back further on his knees and his movements sped up, harder.

“Hurry up,” he growled at Sam, voice rough with restraint. “Come _on_ , you gotta get there, Sam. I’m gonna –“ he closed his eyes tightly and his hands tightened even more on Sam’s legs, deepening bruises Sam knew he would feel for days.

“Yeah, yeah,” Sam groaned. “I’m – yeah.” He finished with another long, low moan, come spurting and dripping over his hand and belly. Dean rammed himself in one last time and froze there, chest heaving like a bellows. He gasped a faint smile at Sam and let go of him, pulling out fast – Sam winced – and rolling to the side, on his back so they lay side by side on the mattress, cooling down to the steady rhythm of the rain.

~~~~~~~

Some time later Sam lay calmly on the tangled sheet, sweat still drying on his skin. His brain was trying to absorb what he’d done, to record the sensations, the satiation he felt now. Centered.

The mattress dipped as Dean sat up beside him. Dean’s expression was hard to make out in the semi-darkness, but it wasn’t just the air conditioning that raised goose bumps on Sam’s skin.

“Something wrong?” he asked, starting to sit up himself.

Gentle pressure from one of Dean’s hands pushed him back down. The touch turned into a caress, nothing threatening in the gesture and Sam let himself be resettled. Dean used the edge of one of the sheets to wipe some of the mess from his skin.

“No. Just a little restless. You want a drink?”

Sam wanted a shower, and to not have to deal with anything outside of the surprisingly pleasurable haven of Dean’s bed. A thought that doused him with a wave of guilt like ice water on a hot summer day. “I think I’ve had enough alcohol.”

“What about some water?”

“Sounds good.” Sounded perfect. “But you got the last round, I’ll get it.” Sam smiled. It was easy. Dean had been right, he gave a fantastic massage and what had come after had been just as good. Sam felt almost boneless, and this time tomorrow all of this would be a bad memory. He would deal with the fallout then.

And there _would_ be fallout.

But Dean was already on his feet and pulling on his jeans. “It’s my house, you’re the guest.”

“No, really--“

“Relax. Or do I need to work on those muscles some more?” Dean flashed him a smile full of charm. “I’m not going far.” He downed the contents of his tumbler from the bedside table and vanished into the bathroom. Sam heard the brief sound of a tap and then Dean reappeared. He handed one of the glasses now filled with water to Sam, who was suddenly twisted with indecision.

Dean drained his own glass, and then frowned at Sam who was still staring at his own. “I thought you said you were thirsty?” Sam looked up. There was nothing on Dean’s face, nothing in his voice to indicate any kind of problem. But that tiny bell in the back of Sam’s mind was starting to ring.

“Are you okay?” Dean sat beside him on the bed, one hand resting on Sam’s thigh. The touch felt good. Being touched at all felt good. It had been a year since he'd spent this much time with any one person, and there was something _about_ Dean, something elusive and compelling...

Dean was a killer. He killed Sam’s dad. The only thing between them was death, and in the morning Sam would have his chance to get answers.

The water had the faint bitterness of the whiskey from before. Sam drained it and set the tumbler on the table beside Dean’s. Then he shoved everything else to the back of his mind as Dean reached for him again.

Justice.

In the morning.

  
  
**Chapter Ten**

Light seeping through his eyelids woke Sam to a stabbing headache. He instinctively raised a hand to shield his eyes, but the motion was brought up short by the sharp yank of metal against his wrist. His eyes flew open, pain momentarily forgotten. He craned his neck around and stared at the handcuff shackling his right wrist. A quick inspection showed similar restraints around his left hand and both ankles. He slumped back onto the bed and hastily catalogued the room, trying to force unusually scattered thoughts into some coherency. The room was more or less as he remembered it, but he didn’t remember handcuffs, and the thick layer of plastic under his body was definitely a new, and ominous, addition. Sam tried to wriggle free of the cuffs, but when discomfort bordering on pain radiated up his spine he grimaced and gave up. The cuffs were tight enough to pinch, he wasn’t going anywhere. He remembered having sex. He remembered Dean handing him water. And he remembered lying afterwards on rumpled sheets with the heat of Dean’s body pressed against his side.

He didn’t remember anything after that.

Not that he needed the roadmap, it was pretty fucking obvious what had happened. He just didn’t understand why.

“Morning, Sunshine.”

Sam raised his head and looked towards the doorway. In it, fully dressed with hair still damp from a shower, stood the focus of Sam’s angry thoughts.

“You fucking asshole, let me go!”

“Why would I do that? I’m enjoying the view.” He raked Sam’s naked body with a leer and Sam blushed furiously despite himself. It was hard to tell if it was anger or embarrassment, because both were pounding through his veins.

“You got what you wanted, uncuff me and give me my clothes.”

Dean’s smile was thin. “I will. Eventually. Of course, you’ll be dead and unlikely to appreciate the gesture, but at least you’ll leave a modest corpse.”

Sam’s thoughts stuttered. “What?”

Dean crossed his arms and all hints of levity fell from his face. He dragged a straight-backed chair close to the bed and slouched into it. His expression was as cold as the blood frozen in Sam’s veins “Do you think I’m some kind of moron, Sam? Maybe it’s all luck and I actually kind of suck at my job?”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about!”

“You were stalking me in the bar, and those weren’t admiring looks you were casting at my back all that time you were sitting in the corner watching me. Your attempt to get closer was laughably sad and if that was the best ‘interested’ act you could come up with you should probably stick to lurking in alleys and hitting your marks in the head with a tire iron or something,” Dean said scornfully. “If that had been a real pick up I wouldn’t have given you the time of day.”

“Then why take me home with you?” Sam ground out.

“Call me paranoid, but I’m not in the habit of letting assassins trailing me around _keep_ trailing me around -- not when there’s an easy solution to the problem.”

“I’m not an assassin!” Sam protested. “And what the hell is _this_ all about then?” He rattled the cuffs against the bed frame. “If you wanted me dead you could have just killed me last night. You didn’t have to... drug me and... and... _Why_?”

Dean kicked his feet up onto the bed. The soles of his shoes brushed Sam’s hip and Sam flinched away, which set off the ache in his backside again and made him grind his teeth together at the reminder.

“Why not? You’re a bad actor, but a good looking guy. Besides, you knew what I was asking for when I invited you to sleep over,” Dean shrugged. “It’s not like I ripped your clothes off and tied you to the bed.” Dean smiled. “You know, _before_.”

“Then why the drugs?” Sam spat.

Dean’s thin smile cooled. “You don’t recognize the flavor? Those were _your drugs_ , Sunshine. The ones you intended for me. I just wanted to confirm what it was and feeding you your own poison seemed the most convenient route to take. I noticed the bottle was half full, by the way. You have a good time playing freshmen pharmacology in the bar with my drink?” He leaned forward in his chair and his expression hardened. “What was the plan? Get me sauced and then help me out to your car? A few apologetic looks for the locals and then a quiet boat ramp while I’m so drugged up I can barely stand? Nice set-up for a drowning, if the drugs break down to acceptable levels before anyone thinks to run a tox screen. Not a bad gamble in the bayou. Hell, with the gators most bodies never surface at all.”

Sam blinked. Dean had come up with a more thought out plan in one rambling monologue than Sam had in the first place.

It seemed counterproductive to argue that he wasn’t an assassin. Dean didn't seem in a credulous mood and the heavy plastic smacked of a certain lack of willingness to compromise.

“So what then?” Sam asked quietly. “A bullet in my head, a pillow over my face? Roll me out in the swamp with all the other people you kill?”

“Not quite,” Dean said calmly. He leaned over and pulled a small black box about the size of a pencil case from the bedside table. “I actually want you found, I want to know who you are and I figure the cops can do a better job of spreading your picture around than I can. I could just carve it out of you, but that takes time and gets messy. I’m not _that_ interested.” He pulled a syringe half full of a pale green liquid from the box and pressed the air out. The cool spray of liquid expressed from the needle fell across Sam’s stomach and he shivered, eyes glued on the syringe.

“It’s poison?”

“This?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “No. Well, not really. It’s a sedative. A little bit will make you sleep, the whole dose will sink you into a coma. It would eventually kill you too, but I need your death to look accidental. No reason to get the cops stirred up to do more than slap a name on your face. It’s true that around here one dead homeless drifter wouldn’t create much of a stir, but it could be a slow week. There’s a public pool not too far from here in need of repairs, it’s closed for renovations but they haven’t drained it yet. I think a nice drowning would light a fire under the construction company’s ass.” Dean smiled and Sam saw death in the curve of his lips. “See? Your little accident will serve a higher purpose. Little kids all across the parish will be thanking you in their sleep.”

He grabbed Sam’s leg and Sam jerked violently in his grip. “Wait! Wait. Just, I need an answer first, you _owe_ me that much--“

“I don’t owe you _shit_ ,” Dean snapped and for the first time Sam saw the heat of real anger under the cool exterior. He matched it with his own, almost unprepared for the explosion it touched off.

“You do, you _asshole_! You killed my _father_. He was the only person I had, the only fucking person left in my _life_ and you gunned him down like it was _nothing_. You want to kill me? Well fuck you, you can damn well tell me _why_ first, goddamnit!”

Dean sat back with a frown, the needle lowering as he studied Sam’s face. Sam felt hot tears of frustration and anger sear down his cheeks but didn’t give a damn. He wasn’t going to live to see tomorrow, but he would get this one thing before the end.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Dean said after a moment. “If it was that job in Munich, that guy had it coming and I’m not gonna fucking apologize for killing a man who could rape his own _daughter_ , so you can--“

“What?” Sam yelled, outraged. “I don’t know anything about fucking _Munich_ , I’m talking about _last week_ , I’m talking about--“

“Then you’re even more incompetent than I thought you were, because I haven’t done any jobs in the past week. Or even the past _year_. I’ve been out of the business for months now and if someone capped your pops last week then I’ve got sad news for you, you’ve--“

Sam cut him off. “No, _no_ , I _saw_ you. The cops had a tape. I saw you on it, and-- _it was you_. In Shreveport. You shot him in the _back_ you _asshole_. Not even to his face? You’re a fucking coward. He was unarmed, and you just _shot_ him. You’ve got to have _some_ kind of reason!”

Dean’s face had gone very still and his eyes were expressionless. Sam had the feeling he was looking at a statue and the living man was suddenly far, far away.

The silence stretched out.

“Dean?” Sam asked warily.

“What was your father’s name?”

John was dead, and Sam didn’t have anything to protect anymore. “He was calling himself John Elmore, but his name was John Winchester.”

“You’re a liar.”

Dean’s voice was remote, almost mechanical. Sam’s eyes narrowed in renewed fury. “Are you still trying to say you _didn’t_ kill my dad? Because I’ve got sources I trust a hell of a lot more than _you_ who are pretty damn sure you _did_ , so--“

“I shot John Winchester in Shreveport last week, but he wasn’t your father.”

Sam stared, unsure how to respond. “Uh, I’m pretty sure he was.”

“You’re wrong.”

Sam’s eyes grew widened. “Then so was he, because I remember an awful lot of fishing trips and motel rooms with my _dad_ that don’t make a lot of sense otherwise. He was there when I was born, he spent years teaching me how to do his job, and he damn well took a _parental interest_ when I decided to do something else with my life! Where the hell do you get off trying to tell me he _wasn’t my dad_?”

“He didn’t raise you.”

“He did!”

“He didn’t,” Dean said flatly. “I think I would have fucking noticed if you’d been riding along in the backseat. What game are you _playing_?”

“In the... what?” was all Sam could manage, dumbfounded at the abrupt turn in the conversation. Instead of answering, Dean grabbed one of Sam’s legs again and plunged the needle in before Sam could do more than jerk in his grip. The icy burn began spreading outwards and Sam could feel his consciousness draining into darkness no matter how hard he fought the inexorable slide. The last thing he registered before passing out was Dean’s voice.

“John Winchester wasn’t your father, you lying son-of-a-bitch. He was mine.”

  
  
**Chapter Eleven**

_Red was the color of the lipstick on the mirror. It was cheap, part of last year’s Halloween costume. Her friends would call on lazy weekend mornings and she would perch on the edge of the sink and take down dates and phone numbers where they could be easily washed away. Sam kind of liked the crimson scrawl on the edges of the glass, each stroke a reminder of his new life, and her companionship._

_But it was still a big mess._

_“Are you going to wash this?”_

_“Nope. It’s an art project.”_

_“I thought it was just a monument to your laziness.”_

_“It’s a carefully crafted tribute to our relationship.”_

_Sam gave the mirror a skeptical look. “Aren’t most of these numbers for times and dates you went out with your friends alone?”_

_She uncapped the lipstick and drew a big heart in the center of the glass. Then stuck the cap back on, tossed the lipstick in the sink, and left her towel on the bathroom floor as she headed into the bedroom with an inviting smile._

_Sam didn’t have much to say about the lipstick after that._

_Red was the color of the dress on the back of the door. The dry cleaning bag clung to him when he brushed by it until he was finally irritated enough to carry it into the bedroom and stick it in the closet. Jessica was studying on the bed when he entered and looked a little apologetic._

_“Sorry, I meant to hang that up.”_

_“What’s it for?”_

_“Graduation.”_

_“That’s ambitious, shopping a whole year ahead.”_

_“Helen’s graduation. Next week. I borrowed the dress from Amy.”_

_“Did Amy want to know why you couldn’t wear your own clothes?”_

_“I traded her my blue tank top and those cut offs you like for the weekend. It’s a girl thing,” she assured him solemnly._

_The dress never left the closet again._

_Red was the color of fire, was the color of the spray of roses on her casket. Twenty-two flowers, crimson on mahogany. One for every year of her life. He had stood there, awkward in a rented suit, unable to meet her parent’s eyes._

_Red was..._ the color of sunlight through his eyelids. Sam squinted without opening them, trying to get away from the irritation without having to actually move. Exhaustion lay on him like a physical weight and the sheet covering him seemed an impossible burden to struggle against, but eventually the persistent annoyance of the light prodded him to try rolling over. Plastic under his body clung and crinkled as he moved. Even in his befuddled state Sam knew that was very wrong. He forced his eyelids open and stared up at the sloped, white ceiling, trying to reconstruct his last memories. Everything seemed ... hazy.

And bright.

And like he’d been here before.

Sam grimaced and shifted again under the thin sheet, meaning to put his back to the wall-length window while he puzzled things out. The dull ache in his thigh when he rested his weight on it brought back his last waking moment in a rush and he sat up in alarm -- then swore violently as the ache from the injection site took an abrupt back seat to the discomfort his new position caused. But at least it wasn’t the sharp pain from... earlier. He looked around warily, but the door was closed and he was alone in the room. The syringe Dean had injected him with lay on the bedside table, still half full of whatever sedative he’d used. Sam didn’t know why he wasn’t dead, but he didn’t intend to give Dean a second chance. Someone had covered him up, and someone had uncuffed him -- but until he knew why he was going to arm himself with whatever was available.

Sam was just reaching for the needle when the bedroom door swung open. He froze and stared in disbelief as Bobby Singer walked in. Sam would not have been more surprised if Santa Clause and twelve festive reindeer had entered the room and he wondered for a heartbeat if the residual drug in his system was causing him to hallucinate.

Even though he’d spent years on the road in his father’s shadow, Sam had met few of John Winchester’s hunting contacts more than once. Bobby had been the exception. In the confusing period after Pastor Jim’s death Sam spent a lot of time at Bobby’s place. He’d found Bobby’s patient ear and the sunny junkyard kitchen more comforting during that time than his father’s gruff directives and the cramped boredom of the Impala’s interior. John seemed to understand that and left Sam to Bobby’s care for weeks on end while he pursued his own business. But there had been a growing tension between his dad and Bobby, late night arguments and angry silences that neither adult would explain. Finally John packed Sam in the car and just never went back.

Not with Sam, anyway.

They looked at each other for a long, studying moment. And then the sound of shattering glass rang down the hallway and Bobby shut the door firmly behind himself.

“Bobby, I....What the hell is going on?” Sam finally demanded, at a loss for a better question. “What are you _doing_ here?!”

Bobby exhaled heavily and scratched at his head. “How much do you know?”

“Know? I don’t _know_ anything, except some jackass named Dean murdered Dad and...” The last words Dean had spoken as Sam blacked out surfaced in his mind and he licked suddenly dry lips. “I don’t know anything, Bobby,” he said again in a quieter voice. “What the hell is going on?”

Bobby bent to scoop Sam’s jeans off the floor and tossed them onto the bed next to him. “You look like five miles of bad road. Take a shower, get dressed, and I’ll tell you everything I know. Dean... won’t bother you. He’s busy demolishing the kitchen. Get cleaned up and then we’ll sort things out.”

“I don’t want a shower! I want some fucking answers!”

The door opened and Dean slouched inside the frame, arms crossed tightly over his chest and no expression at all on his face. “Sounds like sleeping beauty’s finally awake.”

“Who the hell _are_ you?!” Sam demanded, hitching the sheet a little higher. He hadn’t missed the assessing sweep of Dean’s gaze and wasn’t happy about the position he was in.

“Your big brother, apparently,” Dean replied tonelessly. He glanced over at Bobby. Sam followed his eyes, not even sure where to start with the hundreds of questions swirling through his mind.

“I told your dad this was a shitty thing to do, and I’m damned unhappy he’s not here to clean up his own mess,” Bobby growled.

“He’s not high on anyone’s list of favorite people today,” Dean snapped.

“Wait! Just-- wait.” Sam stopped the conversation. “I don’t even care about the rest of this yet. You killed my father, and I want to know why before we talk about _anything_ else. He trusted you, he turned his _back_ on you, and you killed him! I don’t _care_ who you are, you’re going to pay for that.”

“Even if he was dying?” Dean asked quietly. “Even if he wanted me to?”

“I don’t believe you,” Sam said. “I saw the security tape, and he wasn’t expecting the bullet.”

Dean shifted. “I thought it would be kinder that way. Easier. And there wasn’t any time left to make other plans.”

“He was infected by a werewolf, Sam,” Bobby explained.

“I think you need to start at the beginning.”

“There’s not much of a beginning to start at.” Dean gave a half-shrug from his still slouched position. “I hadn’t heard from him for awhile, then he called me up one afternoon sounding half out of his head and said he’d been bitten by a werewolf and he wanted me to finish it for him. I was a few hours away, so I got in the car and drove to Shreveport, but by the time I found him the sun was setting. He was barely coherent. It was the full moon, Sam, and the moon was already up. What was I supposed to do? Wrestle him down in the maybe five minutes he had left and then hope I could drag him off before he turned infectious? Pray for a convenient holding pen so I could wait it out and we could spend one last dreamy day together? He was my dad, and he asked me to do this for him. What the fuck did you _want_ me to do?”

“You said he was out of his head and barely coherent -- that doesn’t sound like werewolf symptoms! Maybe he had hit his head, maybe he was drugged! Did you even slow down to find out?” Sam shouted.

“Sam,” Bobby said gently, “he was tracking a werewolf when I spoke with him last. It doesn’t matter how good a hunter somebody is, you were in the business long enough to know that there’s eventually gonna come a time when you aren’t good enough. You know it, I know it, and John sure as hell knew it. Sometimes when people are getting ready to turn for the first time they show some confusion and bizarre behavior. It’s not common, but it happens.”

“He also had a nasty bite on his forearm,” Dean offered into the bitter silence of the room.

“It can’t have been just a werewolf hunt,” Sam said after a moment. “He mailed me his journal and a note that said he would be by to pick it up. It was over a month later when the police found his body. He never called, he never wrote -- what was he doing for all that time? Not tracking one werewolf, and he wouldn’t have sent me the damn book if that’s all it was.”

“He mailed you his journal?” Dean asked sharply. “All of it?”

Sam looked at him, surprised. “He took out the pages about whatever he was working on when he fell off the map. Why?”

Bobby and Dean exchanged an unreadable look. “Just curious,” Dean said finally.

“Curious,” Sam repeated flatly.

“If you had the whole thing it might help us backtrack what he was doing and make sure at least the wolf that got him is dead,” Bobby said.

“You seriously think he was tracking a werewolf for _five_ weeks?”

“Who knows? Maybe he finished up his last job and just tripped over this one,” Bobby shrugged. “We didn’t have a long conversation about it. He didn’t need my help for one damn werewolf.”

“What about his truck and his things? I checked around the usual places and couldn’t find anything. And he was completely unarmed! Without even his jacket? You think he just got bitten and wandered off? Why the hell wouldn’t he have called _me_? He had time!”

“I found the truck and stripped it,” Dean said, meeting Sam’s eyes evenly. “It was in a mall parking lot a few blocks away. He didn’t leave any smoking guns in it, if that’s what you want to know. I took the gear, ditched the truck -- problem solved.”

“And his jacket? The missing notes? Being unarmed?” Sam demanded.

“He was confused,” Dean shrugged. “He probably had to take the jacket off to check out the bite. Maybe he lost the gun in the fight--”

“What fight?” Sam snapped.

“The one where he got bitten,” Dean snapped back. “You don’t think he just held his arm out pretty as you please to get chomped on? And who the hell knows what happened to the missing pages from the journal? Maybe they’re in the coat in some godforsaken Shreveport alley, or maybe he spilled coffee on them and they got trashed at some roadside dive. It doesn’t matter. I did what I had to do, what he _wanted_ me to do. If he wanted you to get a fucking say he’d have called you too.” On that note Dean peeled himself off the doorframe and vanished back down the hall. Sam glared after him in mute fury.

“Is he really my brother?” Sam demanded to know, still glaring through the doorway.

“Yeah,” Bobby sighed. “He really is.”

~~~~~~~

In the wake of the conversation Sam put his anger on hold as his body took the opportunity to remind him of all the way it had been abused in the last twenty-four hours. He needed more answers, but he needed a shower and some time to get his bearings more. He was grateful that other than one long, hard look Bobby had refrained from commenting on the plastic sheeting, syringe, and handcuffs still attached to the bed frame. Sam escaped into the bathroom and stayed under the pounding spray of the shower until the hot water had long run to tepid. Careful fingertips found the marks of the night before; a bruise here, the scrape of teeth there. He barely remembered getting some of them, but he remembered the pleasure. With his _brother_. Sam didn’t know why that made it so much worse than it had been when all Dean had been was his dad’s killer. He didn’t even know where to start reconciling the new information, but at least it explained the sense of... connection. Maybe.

He was going to send Pam a pointed letter about the usefulness of vague warnings.

When he was finally dried off and dressed in clothes that still smelled like bar smoke, he went to find Bobby again. The bedroom was empty and all signs of the previous night were gone, the mattress had been stripped and the comforter lay in a jumbled heap at the foot of the bed. Sam stepped over it and followed the sound of clattering plates and running water to the kitchen.

Bobby glanced up when he entered the kitchen and set aside the bowl he had been rinsing out. “I didn’t get a chance to say earlier, but it’s damn good to see you again. Even in this situation.”

“It was nice to see a friendly face,” Sam told him, managing a tired smile. “What’re you doing here?”

“He called me. You said some things that made him suspicious during... whatever you boys were doing, so he got in contact to find out if there was any truth to what you were saying. I was only a couple of hours away on my own business. I got here about thirty minutes before you woke up.”

Sam’s stomach reminded him that it had been more than twenty four hours since he had last eaten. He picked up a box of Cheerio’s.

“You can eat whatever you can find; Dean’s not gonna care.”

Sam really hadn’t been concerned about how Dean would feel if Sam ate his cereal. He opened cabinets until he found some bowls. Though speaking of Dean... “Where is he?”

“Out, picking some things up. He’s already heard the story and I didn’t think it needed his editorial.”

“Was that why he was throwing dishes around earlier?”

“He wasn’t happy,” Bobby said in what was probably a wild understatement.

Sam sympathized. Or would have if he hadn’t spent part of his time in the shower cataloging all the places Dean had touched him. He didn’t want to think about his own marks left on Dean’s skin.

“How can he be my brother?” Sam tried to keep the plaintive note out of his voice. “Dad and Pastor Jim always had the same story about how I ended up staying at Pastor Jim’s place. The house fire, mom dying -- that was all the same. No one ever mentioned a _brother_.”

Bobby sighed. “I doubt Jim knew about Dean. He was about four when Mary died. You were a baby, only about six months old. John barely managed to get you out of the nursery. Smoke inhalation did some damage and you were in and out of the hospital for a while. John didn’t have a place to live; he was... crazed, after the fire. He’d seen something awful in that house and no one could convince him otherwise. By the time we did meet up he was already on his path, it was all anyone could do to convince him that eating and sleeping were as important as hunting and killing things. He was like a machine for awhile. Mellowed out some as he got older.”

“Not much,” Sam said.

“You should have seen him then,” Bobby snorted. “When I met him he was two hundred pounds of anger and rage. All grim stares and a twitchy gun hand. I’d rather have tripped over a bear in an alley than have your dad at my back with a grievance. And trailing along behind him was the blondest little wide-eyed boy you’d ever seen. John used to leave the kid locked in the car while he did some of his more irresponsible things in the early days, finally Bill Harvelle and I sat him down and insisted that wasn’t anyway to raise a kid. John didn’t like that much, but then he turned up out of the blue one day and asked if I wanted to babysit for a few days. Since I’d been the one pitching a fit about leaving the boy sleeping in the car while John stalked monsters I didn’t feel like I was in much of a position to argue, besides -- getting along with your dad back then was like trying to befriend a wild animal. If he was willing to leave his son with me then I figured we were making progress. And Dean was a sweet kid. I’d always planned on having some, but... that didn’t turn out. I didn’t mind having him around.”

“I have trouble imagining Dean as a sweet anything,” Sam said darkly.

“Well, time took care of the kid part and life took care of the sweet. He’s not a bad man, Sam. You guys could’ve had a better first meeting than a mutual murder attempt… But he’s not a bad man.”

Sam didn’t think there was enough fervor in Bobby’s wish filled in on everything that Sam’s first meeting with Dean had entailed. He wondered how Dean had explained the situation.

“He killed dad.”

“He did what he had to,” Bobby countered.

Sam grunted in acknowledgment but didn’t otherwise reply to that. “That still doesn’t tell me anything about why we didn’t know about each other.”

“I told you John was a madman after the fire. He didn’t have a place to live and he didn’t care. He was obsessed with research and trying to prove he wasn’t insane. Social services was all over you. They took a dim view of your dad’s situation and assigned you to foster care. They tried for Dean a couple of times, but John wouldn’t turn him over and kept moving around so they couldn’t find him. It finally got to the point where when he tried to visit you they tried to arrest him and... That seemed to be the last straw. You were sick, and an infant and he couldn’t care for you. Hell, he could barely care for himself, or Dean for that matter.”

“But... I didn’t grow up in foster care. I grew up with Pastor Jim.”

“Your dad had some questionable parenting skills, but no one ever faulted his sense of ownership. By the time you were healthy again he’d regained enough reason to know he had no business with a baby, but he knew and trusted Jim. More than he trusted anyone else at that time, certainly not some random state-assigned foster parents. As far as I understand Jim agreed to take you in and your dad pretty much went and snatched you the next day.”

“Why not tell me about Dean? Why not tell _Dean_ about _me_? Didn’t he remember having a baby brother?”

“I didn’t meet Dean until he was about six. He was already a decent shot and could name more monsters off the top of his head than _I_ could. His idea of entertainment was to quiz me on various ways of disposing of a chupacabra. Sometimes though, when he was playing alone he’d talk like there was someone with him, an imaginary friend named Sammy. I didn’t think much of it, but I mentioned it to John later. With the business we’re in you can never be too careful about the line between imaginary and dangerous. Half a bottle of cheap whiskey and I got the whole story of how your dad got into the business in the first place. Dean grew out of it, turned up one day saying imaginary friends were for babies.”

“But... if you met Dad when Dean was six then I’d already been at the Pastor Jim’s for a year and a half. You didn’t know about me?”

Bobby shrugged. “I didn’t know Jim then. I knew _of_ him, he was a good source for the Carolina hunters, but I didn’t know him personally. He was one of the first people who took your dad in, but your dad and I met later through the Harvelles. You don’t think I know _every_ hunter, do you Sam? They call it a _loose_ network for a reason.”

“None of that explains why he didn’t tell us about each other!”

“Because he thought you were safe.” Dean’s unexpected voice from only a few feet behind caused Sam to spill the juice he was drinking. He grabbed a kitchen towel off the table and glared at Dean, who continued on unconcerned. “By the time he decided that was something worth having I was already in it up to my eyeballs, but you weren’t. He could leave you alone in your nice, normal life and keep you out of all the crap and blood the rest of us wade through.”

“Did he tell you this or are you just taking a guess?”

“You think we had a lot of long meaningful conversations while standing on that street corner?” Dean demanded. “I knew the man; _you_ fill in the blanks if you think you knew him better.”

“Fine,” Sam gritted.” That explains why I didn’t know about you when I was little, but I _did_ get dragged into all of this, so why the hell wouldn’t he have told me about you _then_?”

Bobby and Dean exchanged another one of those silent glances that set Sam’s teeth on edge, then Dean shrugged. “He didn’t approve of some of my life choices. I guess he thought I would be a bad role model.”

Sam did some quick calculations in his head. “I was... twelve when Pastor Jim died and dad took me with him. You were only sixteen or so. What kind of _life choices_ did you make at sixteen that he disapproved of so much? Where the hell were you?”

Dean shrugged and pulled a bottle out of the refrigerator. “Mostly in Europe. A little in South America.”

“Doing?”

“Hunting monsters.”

“What was dad’s problem with that?”

“Not all monsters have claws and fangs.” Dean’s smile was thin.

“He was an assassin,” Bobby cut in irritably. “John didn’t approve.”

“An _assassin_?”

“Is there an echo in here, Samantha?” Dean picked a black duffle bag up off the couch and shrugged the strap over his shoulder. “Are you about ready to go?” he asked Bobby.

“Go where?” Sam demanded. “I’m not done getting answers.”

“Tough,” Dean said flatly. “I’m done giving them. Dad was mauled by a werewolf, he was out of his head, I did what I had to do. You found out, didn’t know fuck-all about what was going on, and decided to toss your hat in the revenge ring. We met up, fucked up, and Bobby sorted us out. Now the big kids have work to do while you... run on back to your nice college life. I got you a reservation on a flight this afternoon. No need to thank me, just go home. We can pretend these last few days never happened.”

“That’s it?” Sam asked incredulously. “That’s how you want this to end?”

Dean raised an eyebrow. “Seems tidy to me. Questions answered, problems solved. Everyone currently alive gets to live. What’s your problem with that?”

“You’re my brother! We’re family. The only family we have left, unless you know of anyone else hiding under some damp rocks!”

“Family?” Dean repeated skeptically. “We’re total strangers who have some common ancestry. I’ve got almost as much in common with Jo Bob down at the riverside bar. Should we invite him to hang out too? Paint our nails, braid each other’s hair?”

Sam looked between him and Bobby for a long frustrated moment, then an expression of resolve crept over his features that would’ve set anyone who knew him on alert. “What work?”

“What?”

“You told Bobby you guys had work to do. What work?”

“Trolls. We think they took over a farm somewhere near Pinola,” Bobby offered when Dean remained silent.

“Fine. Sounds good. I don’t even have to pack.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Dean demanded.

“You’re in such a mad rush to get out of here for the job that you can’t even take an hour to talk to me? I’ll just come along with you.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Dean said flatly.

“Why? I’m an adult, and it’s not like I haven’t done this before.”

“You’ve hunted Trolls?”

“I’ve hunted a lot of things,” Sam snapped. “I can take care of myself.”

Dean’s expression grew speculative, he looked over at Bobby. “What do you think?” The question seemed more loaded than it should have been and Sam frowned.

Bobby studied him silently for a long moment, then shrugged. “He’s a full grown man who can make his own decisions. John did have him under his wing for about five years and never complained about his skill. He can probably watch your back.”

“I don’t even know if I want him watching my front yet.” Before Sam could object, Dean gave a resigned sigh. “Yeah, fine.”

“You still want me to come?” Bobby asked.

Dean waved dismissively. “No, go on. We can handle this. Go finish up what you were doing before I dragged you into our little family squabble.”

Bobby looked a little uncertainly between them. “You sure? I don’t mind.”

“What about it, Sam? You think we need Bobby around to make sure we play nice with each other?” Dean’s smile was mocking, but Sam wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of rising to the bait.

He couldn’t do much about the anger in his eyes, but he pasted a fake smile firmly on his face. “I’m sure we can handle it ourselves.”

Bobby didn’t look convinced, but raised his bottle in a half salute anyways. “It’s your funerals.”

  
  
**Chapter Twelve**

Sam walked around the Impala in the sunlight, seeing all the little details darkness and his preoccupation had hidden from him. Scratches on the fender from a hunt in Waxahachie, a thin score where he had shot cans off the trunk during one particularly surly summer afternoon. His dad had not been amused. Sometime between now and then the paint had been redone and the car was waxed to a high gloss, but his fingers could still find the imperfection.

Inside there were even more reminders he had missed in the dark. Neatly repaired rips in the leather of the backseat, discoloration in the carpet where a solution for dissolving Shalgoth bones had spilled on a bumpy backcountry road just north of Chattanooga.

His initials scored into the plastic under the dash where they couldn’t be seen unless you knelt outside the car and knew exactly where to look.

Sam pulled the box of tapes out from under the bench. The music had reminded him of childhood, and for good reason. It was the exact same soundtrack. Familiar recorded tapes filled the box, some were store bought, but most were compilations with their white track-listed liners in battered plastic cases.

Sam pulled one of the cassettes from the box and examined the hand writing, then frowned and examined another tape. He had never noticed, back when his life had revolved around the Impala and the endless miles that vanished under her wheels, that the track titles had been written in more than one hand. He recognized his dad’s bold print on about half of them, but the rest were distinctly different, less angular, and the slant was all wrong. Someone else who had been at his dad’s side enough to take an interest in the music collection had labeled those tapes. Someone else... whose life had also revolved around the Impala and the merciless quest that drove his father’s life.

 _Their_ father’s life.

Sam hadn’t necessarily doubted what Bobby had told him, but holding proof in his hands made everything so much more real.

Real like the bruises on his skin and the vivid memories of Dean’s callused hands, rough in sensitive places.

Sam swore quietly to himself and stuffed the tapes and the box back under the bench seat. He was suddenly sorry he had invited himself along on Dean’s little outing. He needed time and space to think, to deal with the last two days and try and sort out how he felt.

“Ready to go?” The impatience in Dean’s voice wasn’t reflected in the expressionless mask of his face. Sam was filled with a sense of utter certainty that if he walked away now he would never see Dean again.

Family he had been unaware of, a brother he had never known. That he wanted to know. Regardless of what had happened between them so far, he still wanted that chance.

“Yeah. I’m ready.”

He could always leave later.

“Fantastic.” Dean walked around the Impala and tossed his bag in the trunk, then slid into the driver’s seat and pulled the door closed.

“I figure I’ll take you back to the bar to get your rental, then we can drop it off and you can clear out of your motel room. Unless you like paying for days you won’t be living there.”

“Fine.”

Dean still didn’t start the car, drumming his fingers on the wheel indecisively until Sam frowned and opened his mouth to ask what the problem was. Dean cut him off. “I think we need to set some ground rules.”

“Like what?” Sam asked warily.

“Like I don’t want to talk about dad,” Dean snapped.

“There’s not a whole lot we can talk about that doesn’t involve him,” Sam snapped back.

“We don’t _need_ to talk about anything.”

Sam stared at him in disbelief. “What about last night?”

Dean scowled and turned the key. The Impala rumbled to life around them. Even distracted and twitchy with adrenaline Sam couldn’t believe he hadn’t recognized this car.

“I don’t want to talk about what happened in Shreveport,” Dean clarified as he shifted the Impala into gear and headed down the long, canopied driveway.”

“What about you being an assassin?” Sam asked pointedly. “Can we talk about that?”

Dean heaved a heavy sigh. “How ’bout we play the quiet game until we get your damn car, and then... you can ask me anything you want. As long as it’s not about Shreveport. Oh and here,” Dean pulled something from his jacket pocket, “you should probably take this back.”

“How did you get my wallet?” Sam demanded, flipping it open to make sure everything was intact.

“You were snoozing and Bobby was still a few hours away. You didn’t think I sat on my ass all that time, did you?”

“You broke into my car?”

Dean gave him a look like he was slow.

“Right,” Sam sighed. “You took my keys.”

A long pause stretched out between them.

“So,” Dean changed the subject, “how much do you know about trolls?”

~~~~~~~

For someone who had suggested a trip in silence Dean hadn’t shown much interest in letting conversation lapse, as long as it was restricted to hunting matters and didn’t touch on anything personal. Sam had tried segueing into areas he was more interested in, but Dean routed his attempts by simply ignoring the off-topic remarks. By the time they pulled into the bar parking lot Sam hadn’t managed to satisfy any of his curiosity, but knew chapter and verse what it was like to hunt kappa through swamplands. He made a mental note to avoid that experience if at all possible.

The car was in the bar parking lot where he’d left it. It was sunset by the time he reached the rental lot and slipped the keys in the night drop off box. Clearing out his motel room took no more than five minutes, and he left the swipe card for the lock on the bed where the maid would find it. When he left the room he half expected to have been abandoned, but the Impala sat right where he had left her, rumbling idly under a street lights while Dean drummed out the rhythm to Paranoid on the steering wheel. Sam tossed his bag into the backseat and slid into the car like it was the habit of decades. And it was, he’d just been a lot shorter then.

And someone else was driving.

Dean had lost the mood to talk in the time it had taken Sam to return his car and pick up his things. After a couple of grunts and one word answers Sam let himself relax into the familiar leather seat that still radiated traces of the day’s warmth. In spite of having slept most of the previous day he found himself surprisingly exhausted and was lulled into a nap as the last traces of daylight slipped from the sky.

He wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke up. Black Sabbath had given way to Led Zeppelin playing quietly through the speakers. Sam ran an admiring hand over the dashboard, smooth and clean like factory new. Whatever else could be said about Dean, he knew how to take care of a vehicle. Sam figured that if Dean didn’t want to talk about personal stuff, maybe he would be more talkative about a car he obviously cherished.

“I always wondered what happened to the Impala.”

“What did dad tell you?” Dean asked quietly.

“Not much,” Sam shrugged. “One day he left for a hunt driving it, and he showed up a few days later with the truck. Didn’t seem interested in talking about it, just said the truck was better suited for the job.”

Dean snorted.

“How did you get it?”

“How do you _think_ I got it? He gave it to me.”

“That’s real informative, thanks.”

For a moment Sam didn’t think Dean was going to say anything else, but then his expression relaxed a bit and he sighed. “I always took better care of it than he did. We had a disagreement and I left for awhile. Things weren’t great between us for a few years. We never really patched it up for the father and son thing, you know? But we did okay on jobs together, even if he wasn’t real happy about some of my decisions. One day he just tossed me the keys and said she was mine.”

“You didn’t ask him about it?” Sam asked, wanting to hear more about the relationship between the father he felt like he knew less every day, and the brother he hadn’t known at all.

“Do I look like a girl to you?” Dean demanded. “He gave me the car! You think I wanted to have a long teary discussion about it? He was thinking that the Impala gets crappy mileage, sticks out, and tends to not do so well off-roading. So he got a truck, and gave me the cast off.”

“You don’t treat it like a cast off.”

“I thought we were discussing what _dad_ was thinking.”

“What were you thinking?”

“I was thinking I was grateful I was an only child and didn’t have to share,” Dean growled.

Sam reached out to turn the air conditioner up a little. “Earlier you said I could ask you about anything but Shreveport.”

Dean groaned. “I didn’t say I was gonna answer.”

“You brought it up,” Sam said heartlessly. “That disagreement you mentioned, that was the assassin thing?”

“’Assassin thing,’” Dean repeated with an eye roll Sam could hear in his voice.

“You don’t like the word?”

“It’s the way you say it, like something exotic and dripping with Hollywood. Killing people is just another dirty job. Like being a janitor, but with a gun.”

“And that’s how you make a living?”

“On and off.”

“On and off? What the hell does that mean?”

“It means that when there’s an interesting contract floating around I’m on, and when there isn’t I hunt things that go bump in the night with the rest of you,” Dean said irritably.

“Not with me.”

“No,” Dean’s voice was thoughtful. “You walked out.”

“It wasn’t like that.”

“What was it like then? Because to hear Bobby tell it, one day you were learning the trade and shaping up well, and the next you flipped dad the bird and caught a bus to sunny California. Sounds like walking out to me.”

“You’re one to talk! Whatever you did was so bad he didn’t even let me know you _existed_.” Sam felt a brief surge of satisfaction in the silence that followed his outburst, but it quickly faded to guilt. Dean hadn’t known about him either, and John’s blanket of silence had started long before anything an adolescent Dean could have done to break their dad’s trust that profoundly.

“Sorry,” Sam muttered.

Dean shrugged, eyes still glued on the road ahead. It was fully dark and the desolate highway around them was lit only by headlights and the overhead moon.

“I just mean--“ Sam continued when Dean didn’t say anything, “--I don’t _know_ what you did. But that’s the problem, I don’t know _anything_ about you, and I’m starting to seriously question if I really knew anything about dad either.”

“And you think you’re going to catch up on twenty something years in a couple of hours on the road?”

“I think I’d like a few things explained, if it’s not too much trouble.” The sarcasm caused the corner of Dean’s mouth to twitch. “ Bobby said you were four when mom died, dad picked me up when I was thirteen and you were already gone by then so you had to be about seventeen when you embarked on your new career.”

“Sixteen. I turned seventeen a few months later.”

“Sixteen -- and you what? Just decided one day that there weren’t enough monsters out there and you wanted to expand your horizons?”

“They’re all monsters, Sam. Some of them just clean up better in the light.”

“We have police for that, Dean. Cops, court systems, prisons. Hunters exist to take care of things that other people can’t deal with.”

“Yeah. Exactly. There’s a lot of horrible people that people can’t deal with. You don’t let them keep on breathing just because you’re a little squeamish about what spawned them in the first place! If a rugaru kills a little girl at least it’s for food and not sadistic sport. I don’t take contracts from people who want insurance money or are bored in their marriages, Sam. I only hunt monsters. I just don’t care about their species.”

“So you decided to strike out on your own one day?”

Dean snorted. “Get real. That’s like striking out on your own to hunt vampires armed with an Anne Rice novel and a wooden stake.”

“Dad did. Not the vampires, but the striking out on his own with no clue what was really out there.”

“Dad was not even close to being in his right mind. He was just lucky enough to trip over people with real skills almost immediately. I was... Is this really even important?”

“Yes,” Sam said.

Dean’s sigh spoke of long suffering and a deep desire for Sam to shut up. “There was a man I needed to kill. I couldn’t do it for a long time and it bothered me. A lot. Eventually I decided to do something about it, dad found out what I was planning and we had a pretty public fight about it in a bar out East. It’s a hunter hang out -- Harvelle’s Roadhouse, know it?”

“I’ve heard about it, never been there.”

“Of course not, someone might have asked you how your older brother was or told me about dad dragging around another kid and then his game would have been up.”

Sam frowned.“You were hanging out in a bar at sixteen?”

“Ellen didn’t care as long as I wasn’t _at_ the bar, they weren’t exactly worried about a raid, you know? Good local connections.”

Sam resisted the urge to wander down another conversational corridor. “Tell me about the fight.”

“There’s not much to tell. You know dad; we hunt monsters, cops hunt people, and any laws he finds inconvenient are for _other_ people. He was pissed at me, told me if I did this he never wanted to see me again. I said fine and stormed out. Dad stayed inside to drown his anger under enough alcohol to fill the Impala’s tank. While I was kicking rocks in the parking lot a guy came up and said if I was serious about killing this person, he’d show me how to do it smart and not get caught. Humans take a little more finesse than unnamed horrors in the dark.”

“A strange guy walked up to you in a dark bar parking lot, offered to take you off and show you how to murder people and you just hopped in the car?” Sam asked incredulously.

“I could handle myself.”

“I’m starting to really understand why dad kept me on a short leash.”

“Maybe you just needed more hand-holding.”

“At least I wasn’t climbing into cars with strange men in the middle of the night!”

“Not when you were sixteen maybe,” Dean said in a voice that invited Sam to remember a time when he _had_ made that mistake. No matter how deliberate.

“I hope you had a better outcome,” Sam snapped.

“I didn’t find any long lost family if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sam refused to get dragged into that discussion. “So he was legit?”

“Yeah,” Dean exhaled heavily. “He was.”

Sam waited until it became obvious Dean didn’t intend to keep talking. “And?” he prodded.

“And what?”

“And what happened!”

Dean shrugged easily, but his knuckles on the wheel were white with tension. “What do you think happened? I killed the guy. And then I didn’t see any reason to stop with one scumbag, and dad wasn’t talking to me, so I stayed on with my new teacher and learned the ropes of the trade. When I had enough skill I started flying solo. Dad and I eventually made up, a little at least, and he gave me the car. We hunted together occasionally, then one day I got that call and went to Shreveport and that’s pretty much it.”

“That’s a short story.”

“Yes,” Dean said pointedly, “it is.”

Silence filled the car again. “What about the plan?”

“What plan?”

“The troll hunting plan; the whole point of this outing!”

“That. Yeah, hard to make much of one at this point. We’re pretty sure they’re in that area, so we’ll get a room for what’s left of the night, and start poking around tomorrow.”

“You don’t have any other information?”

Dean scowled. “There’re trolls. We have to find them and kill them. How much of a roadmap do you need?”

If Dean didn’t want to talk about the hunt, Sam had another topic all ready to go. “We have to talk about Shreveport eventually.”

“We really don’t. I’ve already told you everything you need to know about it.”

“He was my dad too, Dean.”

“You keep mentioning that, I’m kind of surprised you dwell on our siblinghood considering how our first meeting worked out and all.”

Sam stiffened in his seat. “I don’t want to talk about that.” It was too big of a mess in his head, he needed more time before he _could_ talk about it.

“Oh, now we have a topic _you_ don’t want to talk about. How is that fair?”

“You were there,” Sam said defensively. “I don’t need to fill anything in for you.”

“I’d like to know more about what the hell you thought you were doing coming home with me that night! Did you even _have_ a plan?”

“I think my plan was pretty obvious!”

“Right, but I was talking about your plan to kill me or whatever it was you were after. Not your plan to get my pants off.”

“I just needed to get close to -- Jesus, Dean! I wasn’t planning to go to bed with you!”

“’Go to bed’ with me? What did you think that was -- a slumber party? It’s called sex, Sam. If you can’t even say it, you probably shouldn’t be having it. And whatever your _other_ plan was, it sucked. Obviously.”

Sam groaned in wordless irritation. It didn’t help that Dean was right. His plan _had_ sucked. Demonstrably. But grief, anger, and the tight time frame had made things more difficult. In the aftermath he could think of a hundred things he should’ve done differently. Hindsight was like that.

“Besides,” Dean continued, “what if you’d succeeded? What were you going to do then, genius? Cut my throat with a kitchen knife and congratulate yourself on a job well done? Bet that’ve stung if you ran into Bobby again sometime and found out the truth.”

“I’d would have gotten it out of you before it went that far, and I would have been curious just like you were,” retorted Sam.

Dean snorted indelicately. “You wouldn’t have gotten shit out of me.”

Sam bristled. “You have no idea what I would’ve done.”

“I know I wouldn’t drink from a glass that had been out of my sight for an instant. And I know you can’t take me in hand-to-hand.”

“Oh, you _know_ that.”

“Yeah, I do. But feel free to not take my word for it. Wanna wrestle it out?” Dean’s confident smugness faded and the sidelong glance he raked Sam with was all together more... appraising. Sam didn’t think it was the size of his muscles that were being sized up.

He grit his teeth, suddenly wanting out of the car more than he wanted answers about his family. “How much further?”

“You’re in luck,” Dean told him, voice heavy with personal amusement. “We get off here.”


	2. Chapter 2

 

[ ](http://s1118.photobucket.com/albums/k616/glasslogic/?action=view&current=banner-1.jpg)

  
  
**Chapter Thirteen**

The countryside was dark, lit only by the Impala’s headlights and what little of the moon and stars shone down through wispy clouds.

“Do you even know where you’re going?” Sam finally asked over the raucous chords of another seventies hit. He didn’t know the name of this one; his brother had obviously expanded the Impala’s musical repertoire in the years since Sam last rode in her. Dean’s grunt was more answer than Sam really expected to get with the echoes of their last conversation still thick in the air between them.

It still would’ve been nice to know where the hell they were headed.

Sam was debating how to press the question when Dean turned into the heavily pitted parking lot of a motel that looked all but abandoned, parked by the office, and slid out of the car without a word. Sam was unimpressed, but Dean left the car running and clearly didn’t intend to be followed. It was tempting to slide over and take the car for a joyride, but that was unlikely to be well received. There were already enough problems between them.

Dean sauntered out of the office a few minutes later and tossed a motel room key on Sam’s lap.

“If you snore, you can sleep in the car.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

The motel room was like a fresh breath of nostalgia. If nostalgia was the heavy reek of cigarette smoke almost thick enough to bury the distinctive tinge of mold.

Sam, painfully aware that before he had his own apartment and a life away from the road he wouldn’t have given the state of the room a second thought, wasn’t even sure he wanted to set his bag down on the table. “I thought this was a non-smoking room -- wasn’t there a sign on the door?”

Dean glanced up from rummaging in his duffle bag. He’d claimed the bed closest to the door by the simple expedient of throwing his gear down on it before Sam walked into the room. “It’s not on fire, is it? That’s as much non-smoking as you get here.” His glance raked the bag still slung over Sam’ shoulder. “Digs not good enough for you?”

Put that way... Sam remembered what Dean’s house had been like. If he had no problem with the place Sam certainly didn’t have much room to complain. Still. “Was this the only place in town?”

“The only place that lets you pay cash and doesn’t care what name you sign on the register.”

Sam sighed inwardly and dropped his own gear on the other bed. He had spent his earliest years in the immaculate confines of Pastor Jim’s home, but the years after that had been haylofts to abandoned buildings to rented places that really should’ve been condemned -- and none of it had even phased him. Coming back to the road as an adult though... Sam missed his nice, clean apartment. The desire for it was surprising; it had just been another place to live. But standing in the motel room with its peeling paisley wallpaper, water-stained ceiling, and an air conditioning unit that rattled so badly he could hear it from the street, the stab of homesickness was shocking.

Dean vanished into the bathroom with his gear, leaving Sam with nothing to do but adjust duct-taped antennae until local programming came through on the ancient television set. The antennae had been bent into a misshapen approximation of a heart. It wasn’t an improvement in picture quality and it still didn’t pick up the news, but did add a certain something to the room’s roadside charm. Not necessarily something good.

When Dean emerged fully dressed Sam grabbed his own chance to clean up, and found pizza and beer on the dresser waiting for him when he was done. Dean had tacked one of the white bed sheets to the wall and taken the shade off the closest lamp.

“Stand over there.” Dean motioned towards the sheet.

Sam moved obediently and stood still while his brother snapped off a few pictures.

“Great. Thanks. Eat something,” Dean told him absently as he seated himself at the small table by the door, where he had set up a laptop and what looked like a portable printer.

“What are you doing?” Sam started to grab a slice of pizza, noted half of it was already gone, and carried the box over to his bed instead. There was a stack of newspapers on his comforter and he sprawled out next to them.

“Making IDs. Go through those papers and see if anything jumps out.”

Sam didn’t bother asking what kind of identification Dean was working on. When he hung up his gun the first time he’d been too young to have accumulated anything really interesting. His dad though, his dad had a shoebox full of IDs verifying he was everything from a college professor to a NASA administrator. Sam had always loved the hunts that involved UFO sightings. The people involved usually strained his dad’s patience more than anyone but Sam himself. He overheard his dad once tell a hunting buddy after a particularly trying attempt to get good information from a so-called witness that Sam might be stubborn, but at least he wasn’t _insane_.

“Anything in particular you want me to look for?” Sam asked around a mouthful of pizza.

Dean tugged something loose from the printer and picked up an exacto knife. “Anything weird. You know the drill. With trolls it’s usually missing people and livestock. But they’re too damn good at staying under the radar, finding people who won’t be missed right off. Have to start somewhere though.”

Sam flipped idly through the first paper while he munched steadily through his share of dinner. “So there’s no signs, and no evidence -- why are we here again?”

“I’m not sure why _you’re_ here, but I’m here because Joe Kelly was stalking a Fouke and tripped over a troll den that looked like it had been used recently. He staked it out; they didn’t come back, so they must’ve moved on. The Fouke’s causing actual problems, so he called around to find someone else to deal with the trolls.”

“But why _here_?”

Dean shrugged and readjusted the light, squinting down at whatever he was trying to cut. “Process of elimination. Trolls don’t like to work hard if they don’t have too. Natural barriers to the north and south, major city to the east, and good forest cover to the west. So the likely corridor isn’t that wide.”

“That still leaves hundreds of miles of farmland and towns, why _this_ one?” Sam persisted.

“I’ve been doing this job a long time, Sam. Sometimes you just have to trust your instincts.”

Sam wondered if Dean’s instincts were naturally honed, or sharpened by the same elusive quality as his own.

 

~~~~~~~

 

After a few days in the sweltering misery of a record-breaking heat wave, Sam wasn’t wondering anything except how much more misery he had yet to endure. He loosened his tie and threw it into the Impala’s backseat.

“I think your instincts _suck_ , Dean.”

Dean, just as hot and irritable, shot him a withering look but refrained from replying. He ripped into a bag of chips with enough force to spill half of them to the oil-stained concrete and swore quietly.

Sam wiped sweat from his eyes and tried to rein in his temper. It wasn’t Dean’s fault it was hotter than hell in the Bible-belt. Though it was sorta Dean’s fault he was wearing long pants and a polyester button-down. Hard to play the cop when dressed in shorts and a t-shirt though.

“It’s called leg-work for a reason, Sam.”

“It’s called _stupid_ for a reason too, Dean!” He would have leaned on the Impala, but the dark metal body was too hot to touch. Would have suggested they get back in the car and drive somewhere, but the AC wasn’t quite up to keeping pace with the heat that poured relentlessly through the glass. At least outside, in the shade of the gas station overhang, there was a breeze.

Dean finished the few chips left and dropped the bag into the trash can. “What do you want me to say? They’re here. Somewhere. I’m sure of it. Can I show you proof? No -- but I can’t prove to you the sun is going to rise tomorrow either and I’m pretty damn sure about that too.”

Sam was just grateful Dean hadn’t taken the opportunity to remind Sam that he hadn’t wanted Sam’s company in the first place.

“There are _thousands_ of farms around here. And it might not even be a farm! They could be in any kind of semi-isolated housing. They might not even be in a house. What about a cave? What about some fishing shack? What about--“

“--Under a bridge?” Dean suggested with a roll of his eyes.

Sam glared. “If it was big enough. I’m just saying this door-to-door crap is pointless. We could do this for the rest of our lives.”

“There aren’t _thousands_ of farms, there’s a couple of hundred. And only a few dozens of them are really the kind of places our _special friends_ ,” Dean glanced at where an older man in overalls was pumping gas into a red truck not even twenty feet away, “would be likely to shack up. We’re halfway through the list.”

“And when we’re all the way through the list and we still haven’t found any signs?”

Dean shrugged. “Then we rolled the dice as far as they go. Can’t kill what you can’t find. They’ll surface sooner or later and someone will take care of it when they do.” He ducked inside the car and a moment later the Impala rumbled to life. Sam joined him on the hot leather with a stifled sigh. “Okay. Where to next?”

“That’s the spirit, Sam,” Dean slapped his leg. “We’ll make a hunter out of you yet.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

As they worked together over the week Sam developed a grudging admiration for Dean’s skills at subterfuge. His brother moved seamlessly through a repertoire of personalities that ranged from stern authority figure to awkward rookie and everything in between based on his instant assessment of whoever opened the door they knocked on. Sam was no slouch in the same department, but Dean had more than a decade of experience on him and the polish showed. Sam mostly just nodded and tried to silently back Dean’s play.

Competency on the job didn’t surprise Sam though. Whatever else could be said about their dad, John had been both highly skilled and a ruthless taskmaster. For Dean to have been raised under his tutelage and taken the vocation for his own -- Sam would have been more surprised if Dean wasn’t impressive in the field.

What did surprise Sam was Dean’s willingness to talk about more personal things during the long stretches of time while they traveled between likely targets in the mid-summer misery. Boredom and bad weather were all part and parcel of the job and Sam had missed neither and expected both. But he’d also expected Dean to use the job as a wall to prevent any personal conversation, and instead Dean seemed... surprisingly open.

“I still don’t know what your big deal with clowns is. They’re creepy, but there’s better things to be scared of out there.”

“I didn’t say it was rational,” Sam defended himself. “I just said I don’t like them. It’s a phobia, you know? Some people don’t like snakes, some people don’t like heights--“

“Some people don’t like pudgy guys in make-up?”

“It has nothing to do with -- just never mind.”

“What about Cincinnati?”

Sam refolded the map and tossed it down onto the seat between them, then picked up his MapQuest printouts. “What _about_ Cincinnati?”

“Did you and dad ever eat at that crappy little fish place over on--“

“Yeah,” Sam groaned. “Yes. _All the time_. I think we detoured fifty miles once to go there. It has to be _the worst_ seafood in the _country_. He had some unholy obsession with their fish and chips that -- I just have no idea.”

“It’s where he proposed to mom.”

Sam blinked. “In Cincinnati?”

“It was some chain. They’re all out of business except that one. There used to be a couple in Kansas, and he took her to one outside of Lawrence to propose. But they turned it into a Shoney’s or something and then tore it down.”

“He never told me that. I mean, he never really talked about her to me at all.”

Dean gave a half shrug and pulled the map out of Sam’s hand to glance at it. “When I was a kid he used to tell me stories. For a few years we practically did the Mary Winchester Memorial Tour every time their anniversary rolled around. Where they met, where he proposed, where they got married, where she used to live. Where we used to live -- they rebuilt it, you know? He stopped all that by the time I was about ten or so. I don’t think I’ve even been to Lawrence since I was... fourteen? Maybe. Something like that.”

“I’ve never gone there and looked around. I don’t even know what our old address was. I mean I knew I was born there, Pastor Jim didn’t really _lie_ to me about anything.”

“Except what your dad did, how your mom died, and what it was exactly he was involved in,” Dean said dryly.

“You know what I meant. When I was old enough to ask questions he told me where I was from, and that my mom had died in an accident and my dad traveled too much to take care of me.”

“You weren’t missing much.”

Sam felt like he had missed rather a lot.

“What did dad tell you about that stuff?” Dean asked.

Sam shrugged. “Dad wasn’t really big on details.” Dean snorted. “I didn’t even know what he did when he came to get me after Jim died. Eventually he had to tell me what was really going on, but I don’t remember him ever sharing a lot more about mom. He gave me a picture of her though. Said she loved me, you know -- dad things. I was twelve.”

“You still have the picture?”

Sam glanced over at him. “No. Don’t you have one?”

“Move fast, travel light.” Dean’s voice was dismissive, but Sam thought he heard a wistful note. “If it wasn’t a weapon or a vital necessity I wasn’t wasting time dragging it along. I’ve seen her picture though; dad had one in his wallet.” It was still there, Sam had seen it when he flipped through during his cursory examination at the police department. Worn even in it’s plastic sleeve, damaged from water seepage at some point, and creased from a long ago folding -- it was one of the few things that wasn’t a weapon Sam knew his father had valued.

“Mine was destroyed in an apartment fire about a year ago.” The words just slipped out casually before Sam could really register them. A fire, about a year ago. Just another fact about his life. _Jessica_. Sam stared down at his hands on his lap. Dean’s thumb had left a faint smudge of bruise on the inside of one of his wrists. A souvenir of their first night together. Sam looked out the window instead.

“We’ve had bad luck with fires in this family,” was all Dean said, giving no indication of whether he knew how much that fire had truly cost or not.

Sam said nothing at all.

Conversation ebbed and flowed as they continued working through the list with agonizing slowness. They both shared too much and too little to communicate either with the polite distance of strangers or with the camaraderie of buddies. Without the signposts of familiarity they stumbled down paths of common background and blindly into sore spots and private areas. But the awkward silences were brief. Sam learned a lot about Dean’s childhood on the road, and was grateful that John had already been broken in by the time it was Sam’s turn to learn the job at his side.

But the sense of regret was far stronger. He should have grown up with this man. The memories Dean had should have been memories they shared and neither one of them should be learning about the father who raised them both through the lenses of the other’s life.

They should have been a family. And then maybe their dad would have still been alive.

There were areas they kept off-limits. Sam didn’t talk about anything after he had left for college, and Dean wouldn’t talk about anything after he had struck out on his own.

 

~~~~~~~

 

If there was tension in the room at night, Sam felt it must all come from himself. Dean acted oblivious, like there was nothing between them to cause stress, that needed discussion. Maybe for him there wasn’t. From the stories he told, Sam had the impression his brother had slept with more people than there were days in the year, enjoyed himself and moved on. Giving few lovers a second thought. Sam could count his own partners on the fingers of both hands. He didn’t think it was prudish to want a little more connection than a flirty smile and a couple of beers with someone before inviting them home. He wasn’t used to picking up people for casual sex, and he certainly wasn’t used to then spending days afterwards sharing a hotel room with them while pretending nothing had happened. Sam was finding the experience intensely frustrating.

If things had been what he thought, if the sex had just been the distraction he had needed to catch Dean off guard, to get revenge for his dad’s death... He could have accepted that as just part of the price. But things _hadn’t_ been what he had thought, and whatever he knew about Dean now didn’t change the fact that watching him in the motel room at night filled his body with an uncomfortable sort of heat. Sam wasn’t quite sure if Dean was just that amazing in bed, or if it had just been so long that he would have responded to anyone that way. It was annoying not to know what Dean was thinking, he just couldn’t think of any graceful way to find out that wouldn’t be personally humiliating. Sam half thought he wanted Dean to make some kind of move, though whether so he could accept or reject it was hazier.

Maybe it would be easier when he wasn’t covered in fading bruises and bite marks that reminded him with subtle voices of everything that had happened that night.

Or maybe he just needed to go find a bar and a willing stranger to distract himself with.

Dean glanced up from the computer and caught him staring. Their eyes met and Sam saw... something, in the stillness of Dean’s expression. Something that spoke to the confusion of his own half-formed desires and to possibilities he hadn’t even let himself consider. Time stretched out while Sam floundered, unsure of what direction to move when everything seemed suddenly on the table.

When he finally found words, they weren’t what he had expected to say. “Dad should have told us.”

Dean’s expression melted into a rueful sort of half-smile that held nothing of humor, and everything of understanding. A silent acknowledgment of what had almost happened, and what should never have happened in the first place.

“Yeah. Yeah, he should have.”

Sam drew a deep breath and felt long held tension begin to seep out of his muscles. “I’m gonna grab a shower. You need to get in there before I do?”

“No.” Dean stretched out his back and stood up. He grabbed the Impala’s keys off the television. “I think I’m actually gonna go out for awhile. Get a drink. You want to come?” They had gone out together every night since they had started the job, but there was a note in the invitation that told Sam clearly he wasn’t wanted on this particular trip. They both needed to get some air and clear their heads a little. Though Sam didn’t think ‘air’ was what Dean was really after. He’d be surprised to see Dean back before dawn.

“No, I’m good.” A beat. “Have fun.”

  
  
**Chapter Fourteen**

Sam was startled awake by the scrape of a key in the lock shortly before midnight. He double checked the time on his watch before old instincts kicked in and he remembered there was something more urgent he should be doing. But the gun he reached for wasn’t on the floor by his bed. Sam rubbed at his eyes, trying to force his sleep-fuzzy mind to catch up to the here-and-now when the door opened and Dean slipped inside.

“How was it?” Sam asked, though he had sworn he wouldn’t. He wasn’t even sure what he was asking about. Drinking? Sex? Being away from him for awhile? Dean froze, then flipped on the lights. Sam rolled onto his side with a grimace and propped himself up on one elbow.

“Why the hell wasn’t the security latch on the door?”

“Because I thought you might be coming back at some point,” Sam grumbled.

“You’ve got feet and fingers, I bet you could’ve figured out a way to let me back in that wouldn’t have left you vulnerable to attack,” Dean snapped.

 _Vulnerable to attack_. There was a phrase straight from their dad’s lips. If Sam had heard it ad nauseum, he couldn’t imagine how many times it had been hammered into Dean’s head.

Still. “You might have a lot of enemies,” Sam said evenly, “but I don’t have that kind of life. The door was locked, and anything strong enough to kick it off its hinges wouldn’t have been slowed down by the latch.”

“You’re right; I _do_ have a lot of enemies. And since you’re sleeping in my motel room and they aren’t likely to be real careful, you might want to spend your time thinking of them as _our_ enemies. I could have picked the lock in seconds. You didn’t even have a gun pointed at me when I walked in! What were you waiting for? _Christmas_? Did you think you were gonna have a lot of time to find one if I was here to kill you?”

Sam glanced involuntarily over at the dresser where the Sig Sauer Dean had dug out for him from the Impala’s trunk rested under a pile of discarded clothes. Dean caught the look and swore. He stalked over to the dresser, retrieved the gun, and held it out until Sam took it. “Under your fucking pillow or on the floor by the bed. Or I take you to the airport as soon as the sun comes up.”

Sam took it wordlessly from the outstretched fingers, checked the safety by reflex, and settled it on the floor between his bed and the nightstand. Dean’s eyes were still narrowed in irritation, but mostly he looked tired.

“Everything okay?”

Dean shrugged and peeled off his shirt. Sam told himself he was checking Dean out for injuries, not just... checking Dean out. “As okay as that kind of thing usually goes. I got a couple of beers, nothing burned down and no one took any shots at me. Then I ran some locals around the pool table and called it a night before they got bitter. Anything exciting happen here?”

“I went back through the day’s papers again and spent some time online. Still nothing.”

“Figures. Nothing’s ever easy. Unless it’s _too_ easy, and then you’re in really deep shit. Go back to sleep, I’m just gonna grab a shower and crash.”

With that Dean flipped off the lights and disappeared into the bathroom. Sam closed his eyes, but sleep proved elusive. He was still half awake when Dean came back and fumbled around for the clothes he’d laid out on the bed. Soft creak of springs, the rustle of sheets, and then nothing but the omnipresent rattle of the air conditioner -- quieter for having been kicked a few times.

“Dean?”

“You should be asleep,” Dean said from the other bed.

He should have been, but, “Why did you have to kill someone?”

“What?”

“You told me you left dad because you had to kill someone and dad didn’t want you to do it.”

From the quality of the silence from the other bed Sam wasn’t sure Dean was going to answer.

“There was a girl I liked,” Dean replied finally after a few minutes.

“Someone you dated?”

“No. Shut up if you want to hear this.”

Sam nodded in the darkness, afraid even answering would give Dean an excuse to change his mind.

“There was a woman in North Carolina dad knew. Melissa, Marissa -- something. I called her Ms. M. They had some kind of history, but I don’t remember what it was now. She had like... sixty cats, something crazy like that. And a spare bedroom, which was the real reason I even know about her. If dad needed to dump me somewhere longer than a few days, and didn’t feel like driving all the way to South Dakota to Bobby’s, he’d leave me with her. She was nice, but...” Dean’s voice trailed off and he sighed heavily. “There was a little girl next door, a couple of years younger than me. We played together; I looked out for her whenever I could. But her dad was beating the crap out of her and I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t even know about it for a long time. It’s not like I saw her a lot, just a few weeks here and there. She always had bruises, but _I_ always had bruises too. I didn’t have some normal apple-pie childhood to judge by. But I saw him backhand her off her swing once when he didn’t know I was watching and... Things looked a lot different after that.”

“Did you tell dad?”

“I didn’t get the chance. Cell phones weren’t a thing yet and the dotty old lady I lived with... she was a nice enough lady, Sam, but she seemed more horrified that I had told her than upset at what was going on.”

“What happened?” Sam asked when Dean lapsed back into silence for a few minutes.

“What do you think happened? He killed her.”

“Jesus. While you were there?”

“Not like in front of me. The sirens woke me up. I went out the window and they were taking her body out. Said she fell down the stairs. And she might’ve, but she had help. Her asshole father didn’t even both denying it when I accused him,” Dean said, bitterness still in his voice for an event at least a decade in the past. “Just told me to keep my mouth shut or I’d get the same. I told dad when he came to get me, but there wasn’t any proof. I’d seen him hit her once. That was it. I think... I think maybe if I had _seen_ it, maybe dad would’ve done something. Or maybe not.” Sam could hear the shrug in Dean’s voice. “He had a line, you know? It’s not like there was any point in going to the cops either. Nobody wanted to know about these things, telling the cops some strange ten year old saw this guy hit his kid once a few weeks earlier wasn’t going to get anyone excited. But I couldn’t let it go. She was my friend, and no one else was going to do a damn thing about it.”

“So you killed him.”

“Yeah.”

“Just him?”

“What are you asking, Sam?”

“I just mean, she had a mom too, right? Other people who lived in her house...”

Dean snorted. “If I went after everyone who had failed her I would’ve had a hit list as long as my arm. Teachers, doctors, neighbors, relatives... So, no. Just him. The rest got to live with their guilt.” _Like I have too_. The unspoken words were loud in the room and Sam heard them clearly.

Sleep was a long time coming.

 

~~~~~~~

 

The next day was the hottest one yet. Sam had just about had enough. They were almost done with their list and so far no one had anything out of the ordinary to tell them about. The things they were hunting weren’t subtle. If they had the right house, they’d know it. Sadly, the right house was proving elusive. He had managed to borrow the Impala under various food-related pretenses during the week, trying the same instinct-driven rambling that helped him find Dean. But the faint itch that guided his hand the last time never materialized. Dean was also not impressed with a burger run that took an hour and a half.

“Nine houses left.”

Sam nodded. The week had been incredibly long and fruitless. The countryside was beautiful, but they weren’t there on a nature tour. He felt as dispirited as Dean’s voice.

The first two houses were as routine as the last hundred. Sam was half asleep when they pulled up to the third, but a sudden gust of cool air when Dean opened the door caught his attention. Something nagged at him, something was different. He started across the street towards a small yellow one-story.

“Hey! The house is over here.” Dean gestured toward the brick ranch-style he had parked in front of. Sam joined him, bemused. When they were done and Dean had crossed yet another address off their rapidly shortening list, Sam hesitated at the car.

“Let’s check out that yellow house too.”

Dean gave it a quick assessment. “Why? That’s part of a subdivision. There’s not enough isolation for the things we’re looking for. There’s not even a shed.”

Sam jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the residential property they had just left. “And this place is set way off into the woods?”

“It’s got a barn. Trolls aren’t exactly subtle, and no one is that good of an actor. They could be here, but they aren’t. Six more houses left.”

“I want to check that one.”

Dean groaned and made a production of looking at his watch.

“It’ll only take a minute,” Sam insisted.

“Fine. But you’re buying lunch.”

Sam didn’t bother replying. Dean caught up with him just as he pressed the doorbell. His exasperated look shifted to a professional smile as soon as they heard footsteps within the house. The woman who opened it wore a tank top, bathrobe, and curlers, and looked even more exasperated than Dean did.

“Is there something I can do for you?”

Dean flipped open his wallet so she could catch a glimpse of his ID. “Morning, Ma’am. We’re detectives with the Franklin County Sheriff’s department and -- nothing to be alarmed about, but there’s been some reports of farm equipment being stolen in the area and we’re just asking around to see if anyone else experienced some unreported thefts.”

“Oh. Um, well we... don’t have a farm or anything like that.”

“Yes, Ma’am,” Dean shot Sam a _look_. “We were just at your neighbors across the street and my partner here figured we might as well swing by. Ask if you had seen anyone suspicious in the area or heard about anything like that going on.”

“No, I don’t think so. But,” she frowned, “maybe you should check with the Andersons. I was actually going to try and swing by there this afternoon just to check on them anyways.”

“The Andersons?”

“I take care of their daughter on market days, but they didn’t call last week. They usually call even if they don’t need me just to let me know, but I wasn’t really worried about it then. They didn’t call yesterday either though, and they haven’t been answering their phone.”

Sam and Dean exchanged glances. “You said they have a farm?” Sam asked cautiously.

“Right. A horse farm, it’s just a couple of miles down the road. If you have a map I can show you.”

Sam jogged over to the car and grabbed his area map.

“It’s right here.” She pointed to a spot where they had already covered.

Dean’s lips tightened. “I didn’t think there was a house there. We made up a list of places we should ask around and I thought that land was attached to a different farm.”

“Oh, it was. Still is, I guess, but awhile back old man McGregor let his nephew move into the back forty and build a house in exchange for managing that part of the property. There’s a little dirt road in the trees before you get up to where the farm really is. Look for a white reflector by a stream to tell you where to turn. I think they have some kind of deal to let him buy the land at some point. I don’t know. McGregor spends most of his time in Florida these days. I think the main house is being rented or something.”

“Which explains why we didn’t know about it,” Sam said.

“Yeah,” Dean agreed. He turned his attention back to the woman in the doorway. “Thank you for your time.”

“No problem. Are you guys going over there?”

“Yes,” Sam said firmly. “We’ll check in on them. You just enjoy your day.”

They climbed back in the car, which had approached roasting temperature in their absence.

Dean glanced at his brother as they pulled away from the curb. “Why that house, Sam?”

“What do you mean?” Sam asked warily.

Dean gestured towards the entire line of neat, suburban development stretched along the roadside. “Why _that_ house?”

“It’s right across the street! We’re almost done with our list; I just... wanted to ask a few more people.”

“It was _not_ right across the street. That brown one is right across the street. The one you picked is across the street and three houses down.”

“What do you want me to say, Dean? I like yellow. Sue me.”

Dean growled something under his breath.

It took them about thirty minutes to find the marker the woman told them about, but eventually they turned onto a rough dirt road winding up a hillside through heavy canopy. Sam felt something cold run down his spine.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“I think we’d better get out of the car and take a look.”

The farmhouse looked... fine. Cars were in the yard, and neat pens for livestock were set up in the field around the barn off behind the house.

“This isn’t a new building,” Sam observed. The pale, weather beaten wood needed a new coat of paint and the tin roof looked like it had started life on a barn. The entire thing presented as more of an elaborate cabin than a modern home.

“Nope. Whatever else McGregor and his nephew worked out, this place had been here awhile. Decades.”

“Maybe the original farmhouse and the owner was just grateful to get someone to live in it.”

“Maybe,” Dean said. Neither of them mentioned how for the size and maintenance of the place it was odd that there _was_ no livestock around. Or anything else for that matter. Sam didn’t even hear birds in the woods.

“Is there a doorbell?”

“Nope.” They exchanged looks, then Dean shrugged and knocked. Sam glared at him, but Dean just pasted a smile firmly on his face and waited as lumbering footsteps echoed from somewhere inside. Sam backed up into the sunlight, and was glad he did because what opened the door was in no way human. The...female, was stooped over to hide her eight feet or so of height, and wearing a shapeless floral print housedress that left the saggy grey skin of her knees exposed. Sam started to fumble for his gun, but Dean didn’t look overly alarmed and continued to smile pleasantly at the creature. Even when the air drifting from the house was decidedly... rancid.

“Mrs. Anderson?”

“Who wants to know?” the troll growled. Sam could see the moment in her dark red eyes when she considered grabbing Dean, and the moment when she glanced at him and discarded the idea. He had no doubt that if he had been standing within reach on the shaded porch and not a few steps back in the bright summer sunlight she would have made a grab for them both.

“I’m Richie Valens, with Valens Vacuums? My associate and I were hoping you would let us demonstrate our newest model--“

She slammed the door without letting him finish and her heavy steps retreated deeper into the house.

Dean’s smile took on a feral cast. “Let’s go.”

Back in the car the look he gave Sam was indecipherable. “Good move staying in the sun like that.”

“Trolls don’t like sunlight.”

Dean snorted. “No one likes bursting into flames.”

“I thought they turned to stone?”

“No. That’d smell better. It’s probably where the vampire myth came from, really. Night loving humanoid that eats people and bursts into flames when exposed to the sun.”

“I can’t believe you just stood there with her in reach like that.”

“What was I supposed to do -- run away screaming? I need them not to move, and they will if they think someone is on to them.”

“How are we _not_ supposed to be on to them! I don’t know of many eight foot tall, red-eyed humans, Dean. Do you?”

Dean frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“The one that answered the door!”

Dean glanced over at him again. “Is that what you saw?”

“Is that what--” Sam echoed incredulously, before grasping what Dean was saying. “Wait, what did you see?”

“I saw someone’s overweight, surly grandmother slam the door in our faces. Trolls have a natural ability to project themselves as they need to be seen to fit in.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. ‘Oh.’ Something you want to tell me about, Sam?”

“Nothing to tell.”

“Really. Just good guessing and... What, you eat a lot of carrots? Gives you awesome eyesight?”

Sam shifted uncomfortably. “Maybe it was the sunlight.”

Dean snorted.

“I don’t know what you want me to tell you, Dean. I don’t know why I could see her.” Sam hated the lie, could feel the fragile trust they had been building crumble around the edges. But Dean was paranoid by nature and training, and that training was notoriously intolerant. Sam didn’t know where Dean drew his lines, and wasn’t willing to confess to some _talent_ he only barely believed in himself when that confession might end his life.

“Well,” Dean finally said. “It probably takes some focus. Maybe she was just careless.”

He didn’t mention the house.

  
  
**Chapter Fifteen**

The plan was fairly straightforward, but Dean insisted Sam wait for him while he gathered up what they needed to finish the job. He didn’t want Sam’s face on security cameras while he did his shopping.

“What about your face?” Sam had asked. “They can pass around pictures of you as easily as me.”

Dean held up his right hand, flashing the thick silver ring he wore there. “No one gets my face on camera. It’s part of my charm.”

Sam remembered a security tape he had watched in what seemed like another life. The blurred out, indistinguishable features of the man who shot his dad. “Nice trick,” was all he’d said.

“Birthday present from Bobby. One of the more useful things I’ve picked up.”

Sam was sure _that_ was true.

Dean had been gone about two hours, and returned with the back seat of the Impala full of bright red containers of gas.

“So just burn the place down?” Sam asked dubiously.

“Pretty much. They combust in sunlight, and are incredibly flammable. Unless that place has underground tunnels, burning it down should take care of them. Even if they’re in the basement, and they probably will be, when the upper floors fall in that should do the trick. It’s an old, dry building.

“And when fire trucks show up after about ten minutes?”

Dean grinned. “Why would they? It’s been miserably hot and awful around here, but it’s rained pretty consistently. No one’s worried about wildfires. I called while I was out and let the fire department know we were going to be burning some underbrush out there. I told them we’d be really careful and call if anything looked like it was getting out of hand. I’m sure they’ll investigate eventually, but by then we should be long gone.”

“We’d better be,” Sam said grimly.

“You don’t think casual arson would look good on your resume?”

“I don’t think having multiple murders pinned on me would look good on anything. Who do you think they’re going to blame when the Anderson’s show up dead in that house -- trolls or your friendly neighborhood arsonist?”

“I don’t think there’s going to be anything left of the Anderson’s to find. Trolls are messy, but do a thorough job on their meals.”

“What about the troll bones?” Sam frowned. “Are we gonna have to poke through the ashes and fish them out afterwards?”

Dean shrugged. “There won’t be any. When a troll burns, the entire thing goes.”

“When do we want to do this?”

Dean checked his watch. “Now. We want lots of time between now and sunset, and we sure as hell don’t want to give them a chance to move after nightfall.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Sam had forgotten what it felt like to be on a _hunt_. The tension, anticipation, and constant running over mental checklists to make sure everything was covered. Knowing it was the one thing you forgot that would kill you. He had learned to do the job, and do it well, with his dad’s instruction. But the satisfaction of a job well done was in his dad’s approval, not in the actual skills he was mastering.

Hunting had never been his calling.

Sam had no doubt it was Dean’s. With the target identified and a plan decided on, his brother changed from a laid-back traveling companion to a weapon of deathly calm. Every move he made spoke of focus, control, and a lethal intent that Sam had no desire to ever be on the receiving end of. The anticipation that was twisting Sam’s stomach was clearly not even a passing concern for Dean.

Sam broke the vibrating silence between them with a question he had meant to ask days before. “Do you enjoy hunting?”

Dean frowned. “I don’t think _enjoy_ is the right word. It’s a job. Someone has to do it.”

“Burning things alive in a house while they’re trapped?”

“Are you feeling sorry for the _trolls_?!” Dean asked incredulously. “Do you know how many families this group alone has probably killed? And they don’t _have_ to kill people, Sam. They can live out in the woods in caves and eat deer and other furry things like everything else does. But humans are easy prey. I don’t blame them for taking the easy way out, but I’m not going to sit back and just let it happen either!”

“That isn’t what I meant. I mean, just...”

“I’d rather hunt things that take more skill. Trolls are just taking stabs in the dark until something wriggles, you know? This is clean-up stuff. If you want to _hunt_ you should go find yourself a demon, or a really angry poltergeist. Those’ll put hair on your chest. Good chance they’ll kill you too. But you won’t die bored.”

“Have you even thought about doing something else?”

“Like what?”

“Like anything.”

“I almost got married once. I probably would’ve had to do something else then,” Dean said thoughtfully. “It wouldn’t be fair to tie the knot then spend all your time working on an early grave.”

“ _Married_?”

Dean scowled.

“You don’t have to sound so shocked. Plenty of girls would marry me.” Remembering how impressive some of Dean’s skills were Sam figured that was probably true.

“What happened? Didn’t want to give up the job?”

“I told her the truth. She didn’t believe me. Not a big deal.”

“You _told_ her?”

“What was I supposed to do? I liked her, maybe loved her. She was hinting she wanted a ring -- even if I gave up the job that’s a hell of a big secret to keep from someone. I think she would have gotten around to asking about the ten pound bag of salt and my collection of silver bullets eventually. It seemed better to just lay it out on the table.”

“How did she take it?”

“Let’s just say she doesn’t believe in ghosts.” Sam could hear pain in those words, and a certain resignation.

“That was the only time you’ve ever thought about doing something else?”

“Other than killing things and people?” Dean asked sardonically.

Sam hid his grimace. “Yeah, other than that.”

“Pretty much.”

“I guess it pays well.”

“Why do you say that?” Dean asked.

“That house. It was a nice place.”

Dean grinned. “Yeah, it’s one of my favorites. It’s not mine though, I don’t own any property like that. I move around too much to be tied to an actual home. That place belongs to a client. I solved a problem for her, we keep company on and off. She’s spending the summer in Gibraltar or somewhere like that. I just use the place while she’s gone.”

Sam was absolutely certain he didn’t want to ask if the problem Dean had solved had a name.

“Sweet deal.”

“It is,” Dean agreed. “What about you? When did you decide you didn’t want to be a hunter?”

“I never wanted to be a hunter. It was just... what we did.”

“So you took the first chance to bail out?”

Sam shrugged. “I had a scholarship. It seemed like the right exit strategy.”

“How did dad take it?”

“We didn’t talk for three years.”

“Sounds like dad.”

“It was _college_ ,” Sam said irritably. “It’s not like I was--“

“Going to be an assassin?” Dean offered.

Sam glared. “Running away to deal drugs or fulfilling my lifetime ambition to be a heroin addict. _College_.”

“Dad didn’t... adapt well to change that wasn’t hostile.”

“You mean he was a control freak who resented either of us making decisions for ourselves,” Sam growled.

“He was dad,” Dean said simply. Sam couldn’t argue with that.

“What about you?” Dean asked after a few minutes. “You ever think about getting married? Had someone you were serious about?”

The sunlight was suddenly too bright. “Yeah.”

Dean glanced at him curiously when Sam didn’t volunteer anymore details. He must have seen something in Sam’s face, because he didn’t ask anymore questions.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Dean parked the Impala at the base of the hill to muffle any sounds of their return. When they reached the top on foot they split up to do a quick walk around of the house and barn -- anything dangerous shouldn’t be out in the sunlight, but better safe than sorry. They met back up again on the driveway.

“Front door and backdoor on the house. I’m pretty sure it has a basement, but it looks normal,” Dean said.

Sam nodded as they walked back down to the Impala. “The barn is in good shape, but I don’t think there’s anything alive in there. I didn’t go inside, but the whole thing reeks like there’s been a lot of blood spilled. Nothing was moving around.”

“Makes sense,” Dean started pulling containers out of the car. “Ate the residents, and been working their way through the livestock for snacks. I bet the population of wild animals has been dropping like a rock around here too. We know they’re in the house, so we’ll burn that and then take a closer look at the barn. Burning one building we’ll probably get by with long enough. We start two huge fires and the local authorities might take a closer look sooner than we want.”

“How many trolls do you think are in the house?” Sam asked as they hauled the heavy containers back to the top.

“At least two. Maybe as many as five but that would be unusual. They usually just live as a mated pair, but sometimes you get a group if the local eating is good enough.”

“I still don’t get why they answered the door.”

“Precaution.” Dean shrugged. “They’re not really smart, but they aren’t that stupid either. They can’t answer phones because they can’t mimic voices, but people usually knock on doors before they go to the police. So they open them, and whoever’s out there tells them if they should be moving on or if it’s probably safe to stay another few days. They’re incredibly strong. If we’d been great aunt Sally and cousin Ed she would have dragged us inside so we couldn’t raise the alarm and added us to the menu. Then tonight they would have moved for sure. Since we were just wandering salespeople they might feel safe enough to hang around.”

“But we don’t care if they feel safe or not. They’re trapped inside until nightfall.”

“You always plan for crap to go wrong. If they felt really threatened they might have risked covering themselves up with blankets or something and escaped into the woods anyways. It’d really piss me off to have to hunt this group down again.”

Sam frowned and glanced at the house. “What’s going to stop them from trying that now?”

“Bullets. If you have to shoot them, try for their eyes if you can. Their bones are like granite.”

“...I’ll keep that in mind.”

Dean studied him. “You do have your gun, right?”

Sam gave him an irritated look, then pulled his shirt up so Dean could see.

Dean nodded, satisfied. “Once the house goes up, you probably won’t have to worry about anything.”

“Then let’s get started.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

The house was almost a perfect anticlimactic end to what had been a long, sweaty week. Sam was hyper alert to any hint of movement from inside, but the entire place was as quiet as a tomb while he and Dean splashed gasoline on wood that probably didn’t even need an accelerant to go up like a firetrap. They emptied three of the cans before Dean waved Sam off. He fished a silver lighter out of his pocket and lit the printed maps from the car, then laid the burning paper gently in the porch.

“Finally, something they’re good for.”

The porch caught fire with a gentle whoosh and the flame began to slowly eat its way into the woodwork. They stumbled back a few more feet as it climbed up one of the beams and spread to the sidewall.

Dean made his way around the house and started the fire burning at every window and the backdoor too.

Sam just felt ill. It wasn’t the trolls -- there was almost no other way to kill them, and it was practically suicide to try to go toe to toe with one. It was the fire itself that was causing him trouble. The thick ashes floated on the gentle breeze, and the heavy reek of smoke carried a distinctive smell no other smoke had. Someone’s home was burning, and the last time the wind had carried that scent to him the home that was burning was his. He closed his eyes and breathed through his mouth. The place was going up like a torch. Just a little while, and they could go.

He sat back on the grass away from the building and focused on anything but the eager crackling of flames. He wasn’t really aware of how much time had passed. Maybe half an hour before a shadow cut between him and the sun. “You okay, Sam?”

Sam opened his eyes. Dean was looking down at him, soot smeared across one cheek and a concerned look on his face. Sam tried a smile. “You smell like an arsonist.”

“Go figure.” Dean snorted. “You won’t do me much good down here on the ground if something crashes out of that house hell-bent on killing us.”

There was another thud and a new explosion of sparks as the main beam of the roof caved in and took the second story with it. “You think there’s much chance of that?”

They both watched silently as the fire continued merrily burning. A few minutes later the entire left side collapsed into the basement.

“No,” Dean said calmly. “Almost none.” He squinted at the skyline. “We should go check out the barn and then get out of here. I think the patience of the local fire department is probably going to give out soon.”

Sam nodded and stood up. His legs felt shaky and his chest tight.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Dean asked again.

“I’m fine. It’s the smoke.”

Most of the smoke was being blown well clear of where they watched from. Dean didn’t comment, just led the way around the property towards the barn. It was easily twice as big as the house. Dean hauled the door open. Inside was a dark cavern that reeked like a charnel house. Sam hesitated, suddenly _certain_ that he didn’t want to go in.

“Sam?”

“Do the lights work?”

Dean flipped the switch a few times with no result and shrugged. “That’s why God gave us flashlights.” He pulled one out of his belt and shone it into the depths. Sam fumbled to do the same. The barn was two stories and smelled like tobacco beneath the rancid reek. He could see drying racks of some crop up in the second level, but down below was a maze of stalls and pens. And blood. Everywhere was blood. Splashed on walls and stained on the loose dirt floor.

“Guess I was right about the snack food,” Dean commented as he peered into one of the stalls.

“Yeah.” Sam fought his gag reflex. At least he couldn’t smell the smoke so strongly now.

Dean must have heard something in his voice because he gave Sam a sharp look. “We’ll walk through here just to be sure we didn’t miss any of them, and then we’re done.”

“Sounds good.”

They picked their way through the mess, then Dean stuck the flashlight in his teeth and hopped up on one of the ladders.

“Stay down there,” he called from the top. “It’s pretty open up here, and there’s some light coming in through the walls. Just wanna make sure.”

Sam shifted impatiently. Dean’s even footsteps as he crossed the old wood were a clearly audible shuffle and scrape and Sam just wanted him to come back so they could leave.

Then a creak that didn’t come from above echoed in the darkness and Sam wanted Dean to come back for entirely different reasons. He could still hear his brother’s footsteps at some distance on the second floor, but maybe...

“Dean?” he whispered softly. No answer but another creak. Closer, and off to the right. Sam pulled his gun and turned the flashlight that way, but saw nothing. Not surprising, there were three rows of stalls in the barn and half of them had full walls. Just because he didn’t see anything didn’t mean he wasn’t about to be ambushed. Sam spared a glance for the ladder, but the only thing worse in his mind than being attacked alone in the stalls was being grabbed off the ladder and attacked when he was unarmed. The noise came again from behind him. Sam spun and opened his mouth to yell for Dean, but before he could make any noise something exploded out of the shadows and slammed into him like a wrecking ball. Sam had time to get off one shot before they went down, rolling across the filthy floor in blind struggle.

“SAM!” Dean’s panicked shout echoed off the walls, but Sam barely registered it. White sparks floated in his vision. He’d lost his gun and flashlight in the rotted hay of the stall they landed in. Impossibly strong hands were ripped at his clothes and there was agony in his right arm that was quickly drowning out all the other aches of impact. He fumbled with his left to find anything useful as a weapon. His fingers closed on what felt like a brick. Sam heaved it up with all the adrenaline-fueled strength he could manage to where he calculated the thing’s head was. There was a groaning snarl and the smothering weight vanished.

Other hands were on him and a bright light was in his eyes.

“Are you alive?!”

Sam started to nod, then quickly thought better of it as his head reminded him it hadn’t been spared the impact.

“It’s still here,” Sam sat up, pain shot through his arm and brought tears to his eyes. He managed to bite back the scream. Dean grabbed him under his good arm and dragged him to his feet.

“I know it’s still here,” Dean snapped. “Did you see more than one?”

He had barely seen that one. “No, but--“

“Shut up. I’m listening.”

Sam stood still, shivering with pain and what he was pretty sure was a concussion to go with his broken arm. Somewhere in the stalls there was a rustle of movement. A shuffle and a slide. Dean hauled Sam towards the door. It wasn’t the one they had come in, but it was closer. All they needed was to be out in the sunlight.

“I can walk,” Sam hissed. Dean pulled his hand away as if burned.

“Then do it. Just keep fucking moving.”

Sam was ten feet from the door and its promise of safety when his boot caught on something and he fell to his knees. He might’ve kept his balance on any other day, but in the dark with his head swimming the stumble was more than he could recover from. It was all the excuse the monster needed to grab for him again. Sam flinched back into Dean’s legs as the shadow detached from the wall with a snarl. Dean shoved Sam away just as the troll reached them but wasn’t able to dodge in time. It backhanded Dean with a resounding crack. Sam heard the dull thud of Dean’s body slamming into one of the poles. He didn’t have time to look for his brother. The troll was turning back to him and Sam had more than he could handle just scrambling out of its reach.

A single gunshot exploded in his ears and the troll slumped to the ground. Sam looked around wildly. Dean was standing behind him, the flashlight in one hand, gun in the other. Sam couldn’t see his face, but he could clearly see the limp as Dean made his way back to Sam’s side.

“You need help getting up?”

“No.” Sam used the stall and his good arm to get back on his feet. “Are you okay?”

“I’ll live,” Dean replied tiredly. “Let’s get out of here.” He limped past Sam and shoved open the door. Afternoon sunlight flooded into the barn and the troll started to smoke. In the few seconds before the sun ignited its skin Sam glanced down and saw the bloody wound where its left eye had been. He caught up with Dean who was waiting impatiently on the grass.

“Nice shot.”

Dean grunted something and they picked their way slowly past the smoldering remains of the house and down the hill. At least the attack had distracted Sam from thinking about the flurry of ashes and other things that burned alive.

“What about the gas cans?”

“I’ll drive the car up. Neither of us is up to carrying anything but our own weight.” Sam was privately unsure if Dean was up to that much, but since it was all he could do to stay upright himself he wasn’t in a position to suggest anything better.

He finally climbed into the car with a sigh of relief. It changed to irritation when Dean grabbed his chin and pulled his head around to shine a flashlight in his eyes again.

“Your pupils look okay, but you’re wobbly and sheet white. Is that the arm or your head?”

Sam grimaced and tried to wiggle the fingers of his right hand. They moved, but the pain it caused wasn’t worth the effort. “I think both. What’s wrong with you?”

“Bastard caught me in the arm, and I hit the barn with my leg. I don’t think anything’s broken, just hurts like a bitch. The usual collection of injuries from getting smacked around by monsters.”

Sam sighed. “I dropped my gun inside.”

“And your flashlight.”

“Yeah.”

“Are your prints on file anywhere?”

“No. I don’t think so.”

Dean looked relieved. “No problem then, the gun was a throw away.” He turned the ignition and drove carefully up the hill, following the gravel path to the barn. “We’ll just leave the stuff inside, light the place up, and not give a damn about anything the police might find.” Dean hopped carefully out of the car and grabbed a gas can. “Stay put.”

Sam stared at the barn, jaw set. “Dean...”

“What?”

“I can’t have my prints on file.”

“Your astrologer said that was a bad omen while Saturn was in freaking Venus, Sam?”

“We didn’t talk about my school, but I’m studying law. To be an attorney,” he clarified hastily. “I have to take the bar in a couple of years and they do a lot of background checking--“

“--and they run your prints through the FBI database and you can’t risk them being turned in for an unsolved murder, arson, _whatever_ in Podunk, Mississippi,” Dean finished with a groan.

Sam swung his legs out of the car resolutely. “I’ll go get them.”

Dean raked one filthy hand through his sweaty hair. “Shut up and sit tight. You’re not going back in that death trap.”

“I can’t leave my prints--“

“I know! I heard you. I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Sam growled. “At least my legs work.”

Dean snorted. “You can’t even walk without tipping over. That troll was probably alone. I mean, if there were other’s they would have come after us too. It’s not a big deal.”

“Dean--”

“Can it, Sam. And don’t even _think_ of getting out of that car. If there is another one I can’t have you in there with a broken arm and a busted head. Just -- stay here!”

It took Dean less than five minutes to find the missing items and set the place on fire. They left immediately afterwards, and not a minute too soon since they passed two fire trucks on their way up the road.

“You don’t think they’ll find anything?” Sam asked, watching the flashing lights in the rearview mirror.

“The barn was as dry as the house. I doubt there’s gonna be much in the way of bloodstains for them to find, and bloodstains are about the most evidence trolls leave behind. There’ll be a big investigation, and in a few weeks the file will get shoved back under bigger priorities and so on and so on. It’s how these things go.”

Sam nodded, he knew how the system worked too. Anything that didn’t fit in was glossed over or left out. People liked a tidy story. Or a total mystery. It was only when there was too much of one and not enough of the other that things got dicey. He reached for his seatbelt with some idea of slipping the shoulder harness behind his back and just buckling the lap part. Even the slight movement jarred his arm and he gave an involuntary gasp of pain. Dean glanced over.

“Try not to move. I want to clear a few miles before I find a clinic.”

“We smell like we bathed in gasoline. What’re you gonna tell them happened?”

Dean’s smiled. “Something come to me. It usually does.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

“The grill exploded?” Sam repeated for the third time about an hour later.

“I told you not to toss that aerosol can in there,” Dean told him seriously.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “And why was _I_ the dumbass that caused all the problems in the first place?”

“Because I went back into a troll infested barn to find the gun you dropped. Which is why I got to pick the colors of your cast too.” Sam glanced down at the cheerful pink and yellow spiral immobilizing his arm. “Besides, it’s my story.”

“I think my favorite part was when I got the concussion throwing myself headfirst into a brick wall.”

“That was the crazed panic,” Dean offered. “Next time the grill explodes you should look before you leap out of the way.

“I’ll remember that,” Sam said dryly. “I noticed you weren’t too clear on who soaked the briquettes in gasoline to start with.”

“A little mystery makes the story better.”

“Was that why you wouldn’t let them x-ray your leg? The _mystery_?”

“I wouldn’t let them x-ray my leg because I’ve got two old bullets in it and that’s the kind of thing that makes people start paying attention,” Dean said flatly. “Two dumbass rednecks are two dumbass rednecks. Besides, it’s not broken. I’ll stay off of it for a few days and it’ll be fine.”

Sam started to open his mouth but Dean cut him off. “If I need more help I’ve got places to go for it. My leg’s fine. How’s your head?”

“Hurts. The arm feels better.”

“Nothing like bone grinding itself together to make you give your skeleton some respect.”

Sam settled back in the seat and closed his eyes, trying to find some relief from the persistent ache in his head. “Where’re we headed?” he asked a few minutes later, fuzziness from pain killers starting to cloud his mind.

“I’m going to get our stuff from the motel, then up north. Bobby wanted to see us, said he had something to give us.”

“We’re going to South Dakota? I thought he was on a hunt?”

“When I called him, while you were getting plastered,” Sam could hear the smirk in his voice, “he was on his way to find us. I said we could meet up in the middle.”

“Another of your client’s homes?”

“Nope. Cabin that belongs to a buddy of his. Why don’t you get some sleep? I’ll keep the music down.”

Sam mumbled his agreement and sank into darkness mercifully free of dreams.

  
  
**Chapter Sixteen**

Sam stirred intermittently through the rest of the night, surfacing only when the car stopped or Dean shook him gently awake to push more pills on him. The music was always playing quietly in the background, the soundtrack of his adolescence. The comfortable familiarity of it followed him into unconsciousness. It was hard for Sam to remember that, just over a week ago, Dean had been a stranger and Sam had tried to kill him. Tried badly, but still _tried_. He felt like he’d known his brother for ages. Only Jessica and his dad’s presences had felt as comfortable, as _natural_ , as Dean’s did. Over the last week he thought he’d seen a certain relaxation in Dean that hopefully indicated a similar affinity.

Which made it all the more baffling to wake up to the same cold, vicious stranger who had shackled him to a bed frame only about a week and a half ago.

By the time the mist of morning started to burn off, Sam had already retreated into an angry silence and Dean had turned the music up so loud that passing cars probably knew what was pounding out of the Impala’s speakers. It wasn’t helping Sam’s concussion and he fought off nausea as the racket set off a blinding headache. The pain was preferable to letting Dean know much it bothered him.

“Do you want breakfast?” Dean asked curtly.

“No,” Sam ground out, staring fixedly down at the floor. At least it wasn’t moving.

“Suit yourself; we’ll be there in an hour.”

It felt like the longest hour of Sam’s life. Just when he thought he was going to break and either kill Dean, the tape deck, or both -- Dean turned off onto a meandering country road. Ten more minutes brought them under the eves of the forest and to a small, rustic cabin. A battered old truck was pulled up close to the house. Sam dimly remembered having seen it outside of Dean’s place in Louisiana. Dean barely gave it a glance.

He shoved open the door as soon as Dean pulled the car to a stop and closed his eyes to soak in the merciful quiet.

“Do you need any help getting out?” Dean asked grudgingly.

Sam didn’t bother responding, just waiting until he heard Dean’s halting footsteps crunch across the grass and up the short stairs. The limp seemed a little worse given the night to stiffen up, but that was richly deserved, in Sam’s opinion. There was the squeal of the screen door, and then the low murmur of voices. Sam basked in the quiet for another minute, then reluctantly followed Dean into the cabin.

 

~~~~~~~

 

When Sam let himself in, Dean was sitting at a kitchen bar with his bad leg propped on a stool. Bobby, caught in the middle of pouring coffee, stared.

“What the hell happened to you?”

“He tripped on his own feet and landed on his head,” Dean said. He stole one of the cups from the counter in front of Bobby.

Sam glared. “One of the trolls wasn’t as dead as Dean thought. It came out of nowhere.”

“Maybe if you’d been looking around instead of just _standing_ there it wouldn’t have been such a surprise.”

“Maybe if you’d stayed with me instead of taking off on your own I would have been able to hear it over you clomping around upstairs!”

“Oh, so now it’s _my_ fault you suck as a hunter. If you hadn’t been so busy staring at my ass you would have been up the ladder after me and you wouldn’t have gotten banged up!”

“Staring at--“ Sam echoed, outraged. “You _told_ me to stay downst--“

“ _Boys_ ,” Bobby snapped. “I don’t care who told who what, when, or where. Both of you, shut up. I’ve got something to give you.”

“Is it a plane ticket? Because Sam could use one of those.”

Sam didn’t even try to respond to that. In the silence, Dean crossed his arms and looked away.

Bobby glared at them both. “Are you done?”

Dean shrugged.

“Your dad left me a trunk of things that he said were mine if he died. I’d half forgotten about it, not the kind of thing a man likes to dwell on.” Bobby sighed. “When I finished up that job in Texas I went up home and riffled through it. These letters were inside with your names on them.”

“Why didn’t you just mail them?” Dean asked.

Bobby’s eyes narrowed. “It’s the last thing I can do for your dad and it seemed the kind of thing best done in person. Sorry princess, I didn’t realize your dance card was so full. You have any other smart comments or can we get on with this?”

Dean slouched a little more on his chair but kept his mouth shut.

Bobby picked up a manila envelope from the table and shook out two envelopes. He handed one to each of them. Dean barely looked at his before he ripped into it and pulled the folded paper out. Sam took longer. He hadn’t expected to hear from his father again, holding his dad’s last words in his hands was incredible. He risked a glance at his brother, but Dean was absorbed in whatever he was reading. His face was absolutely expressionless. Bobby was back behind the counter, grumbling quietly at the coffee pot.

Sam ran a finger under the flap and pulled out the cheap typing paper. He read the message once, then twice. It was short, but Sam still felt tears well up in his eyes and angrily wiped them away. He wasn’t going to cry for Dean’s entertainment. He folded the letter again and slid it back in the envelope for safe keeping. Bobby was watching him when he looked up, obviously curious, but willing to respect Sam’s privacy enough not to ask. Sam forced a smile.

“It doesn’t say much. He was proud of me, sorry we didn’t have more time together, knew I’d do well. That kind of thing.”

“Did he mention me?” Dean asked, looking up from his own letter for the first time.

“No,” Sam sighed. “He told me if I ever needed help I should call Bobby.”

Bobby snorted. “Passing the tradition along, I see. I’m glad your dad didn’t think I needed to be getting my beauty sleep or anything. What about your letter, Dean? He mention a brother to you?”

“No,” Dean shrugged. “The same kind of crap Sam got.”

“It seemed to take you a long time to read it if all you got was the same kind of _crap_ ,” Sam snapped.

Dean’s smile was thin. “Not all of us can go to fancy schools. I have trouble with the big words.”

Sam’s nostrils flared. “Go to hell.”

“Or Vegas,” Dean agreed lazily. “Just as soon as you head on back home and let me get back to my life.”

“Jesus, Dean! I didn’t fuck up your hunt!”

“You also didn’t bring a whole lot to the table. Between having to watch your ass and do the job practically myself it’s a miracle we both lived!”

“So that’s it?” Sam demanded. “One week and then bon voyage?”

“That’s it. What did you expect? You’ve got a life in California. Plans, a future. You never wanted to hunt in the first place. Which’s good, since you suck at it. But this is what I do, and I _don’t_ suck at it. We’re both going to be safer, and happier, if we just go back to our lives and forget this little vacation ever happened.”

“You’re my _brother_!” Sam yelled. “You’re the only family I have left -- and you want me to just walk away? What about family, Dean?”

“What _about_ family? We were perfectly happy before we knew each other existed, and neither of us could stand dad for more than five minutes at a time. I don’t see this as a big loss, Sam. We had fun, now it’s time for you to go home.”

Sam just stared, at a complete loss.

“Go on,” Dean made a waving gesture towards the door. “Did you forget where you live? I can draw you a map.”

“Dean--“ Bobby began slowly.

“Stay out of this, Bobby. Unless you’re looking to adopt,” Dean snapped. Bobby fell silent.

Sam stood up, chest aching. Whatever he’d felt between them had obviously all been one-sided. Dean was... not what he’d thought. He probably _would_ be better off without Dean in his life. “You expect me to just walk out?” Sam asked in a dead voice.

“Nope.” Dean leaned over and snagged Bobby’s truck keys where they sat on the counter. “There’s an Enterprise car rental place a couple of miles down the road. You can leave the truck there and get your own wheels.” He tossed Sam the keys.

Sam grabbed them, and glanced over at Bobby, but Bobby wouldn’t meet his eyes.

“Have a nice life.” Sam stormed to the door.

“My gun?” Dean’s voice halted him in his tracks on the threshold. Sam wanted more than anything to keep walking, but forced himself to pull the gun from his waistband and set it on the end table by the door. He glanced up almost against his will. Bobby’s expression was mildly regretful, but Dean’s mocking half-smile reignited Sam’s anger.

The crack of the screen door slamming was like a gunshot in the room. Silence reigned until the low rumble of the truck’s engine had vanished into the trees. Dean sighed heavily and rubbed at his eyes, all traces of smile gone.

“That was harsh,” Bobby said quietly.

“Had to be done.”

“Like that?”

“Yeah,” Dean said flatly. “Like that. Nothing else would’ve chased him off and made him stay gone.”

“And that’s important.”

Dean looked up and glared. “Yeah, that’s _important_. And it’s what dad wanted.”

“I didn’t think you gave much of a crap about what John wanted,” Bobby observed.

“I did when he had good reasons,” Dean flared.

Bobby ignored the flash of temper. He’d tangled with John too often to be intimidated by his son. “What happened out on that farm could’ve happened to any hunter,” he said evenly. “Sam might be a little green, but it didn’t sound like he was _that_ bad. And he’s hurting, Dean. You should’ve told him the truth about what happened to your dad. He could help, might find some peace in it, even.”

“Of course he could help.” Dean slumped back in his chair. “He might need a little polish and a refresher on motel room safety, but he’s got dad’s fingerprints stamped all over him.”

“Then why? Sam’s a grown man. He doesn’t need you to make his decisions for him. Wasn’t it John keeping secrets that landed everyone in this mess? I thought you took him out on that hunt to test his metal. If he passed, why chase him off?”

“Because dad _did_ have a damn good reason to want Sam isolated from hunting, and the supernatural, and anything that goes bump in the night. Sam going to college was the best thing that ever happened for dad. And he made sure that when Sam left, he wasn’t going to come back. Just like I had to make sure.”

“What are you talking about?” Bobby asked sharply. Dean held out his letter wordlessly and waited until Bobby snatched it from his grip. He drank his coffee and watched Bobby pale under the florescent lights as he read down the page.

“Jesus,” Bobby said finally.

“Yeah.”

“I mean... _Demon blood_? I knew he was asking a lot of questions about crap like that way back in the day, but I thought he was just curious. A new hunter, monsters are real, that sort of thing. I had no idea... I wonder if he told Jim when he left the boy with him?”

“I don’t know, but it explains why he thought a church was a better place for Sam to grow up than on the road,” Dean said grimly.

“Do you think Sam knows?”

“I’m pretty fucking sure he doesn’t. For one thing, dad didn’t tell him, and for another... Look, he doesn’t know, Bobby.” Dean massaged the bridge of his nose. “I’ve got a headache.”

“What are you going to do?”

“About the headache?”

“About your _brother_ ,” Bobby growled.

“What dad asked,” Dean sighed. “Keep an eye on Sam, stay out of his life, and if he looks like he’s selling out to the dark side... handle it.”

“That’s a lot to leave on your shoulders.”

Dean snorted and grabbed the letter back. “Don’t feel left out. If I buy it, it’s all on you to watch my little brother and make sure he doesn’t sign up to bat for the wrong team.”

“And the other thing?”

Dean hesitated, as expression of regret stealing over his face. Then he shook his head. “Sam needs to go back to school and forget everything about his past. I can do what needs to be done without him.”

  
  
**Chapter Seventeen**

Being back in Palo Alto was like visiting a foreign land.

It didn’t seem like a week and a half should be long enough to erase more than three years of settling in and building a life, but Sam felt as awkward and out of place as he had when he had first started. His apartment no longer felt like a comforting haven, and he could barely concentrate on getting ready for class. Everything felt temporary, like he was on a job just biding his time working a case before moving on. Except there was no case, and there would be no next town over the horizon. This was his life, his _home_ , but Sam couldn’t shake that feeling of suspension, of being caught between one breath and the next.

It was maddening.

Beneath it all was a deep, burning anger at Dean.

The unfairness of it still stung -- even a month after they’d parted. He’d done nothing to deserve that kind of dismissal. That kind of _treatment_. Whatever it started out as, by the end of their time together Sam felt the beginnings of a genuine bond with his brother, one of mutual respect, shared interests, and common background. Their dad’s death coming so soon after Jessica’s had tossed Sam into a lonely freefall. His background made it hard to make close friends -- and he had few contacts among hunters. The reality of Dean had been like finding firm ground again, and Sam was willing to overlook a lot to feel like there was someone in the world who would honestly care if he lived or died. Not because they’d been friends with his dad or he owed them rent, but because they were... family.

Dean apparently had other priorities in life.

Sam punched his pillow with his good arm and turned over, scowling in the darkness of his quiet bedroom. He wanted to be able to give Dean the same cavalier dismissal, to put him out of his mind and genuinely not care. But... Sam still wanted to know that Dean was alive somewhere out there in the night. He decided that maybe when he could think about his brother without the immediate desire to swear and throw something he could call Bobby and check in. Sam thought Bobby might understand without the whole explanation and be willing to drop a hint now and then that Dean was still around. Doing the job, killing monsters.

Killing people.

Sam sighed and kicked off his covers, resigned to another sleepless night. Dean killed people, and Dean killed monsters, and sometimes those were the same thing. Sam wasn’t entirely sure how he felt about it, though Bobby seemed perfectly fine with Dean’s career decision, but since he wasn’t planning to turn his brother in to the cops his personal opinion didn’t really matter. Especially since the odds of him ever seeing Dean again seemed astronomically low.

The idea of Dean in prison was briefly entertaining. At least then he would know where his brother was.

Dean being an asshole was not the only problem Sam was wrestling. After a week --just one hot, tedious, miserable week-- Sam was finding that his academic aspirations and post-college plans held a lot less luster. There was just something about being back out on the road that he actually missed now that it was over. He’d spent the entire time he wasn’t studying Dean wishing to be back home in California, and now that he was, all he wanted was the road. It made Sam wonder uneasily if his decision to quit hunting was because he genuinely wanted a different future for himself or because he couldn’t stand the stifling grip his dad had on his life and knew there was no other way he could leave. The mental squirming was making for a lot of restless night.

Sam finally dragged a shirt on over his boxers and padded into the living room to dive into his textbooks again.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“Sam.” A hand jostled his shoulder. “Sam, wake up.”

“Hmmmm.”

“Sam, class is over.” That got more of his attention and Sam struggled awake. A girl he recognized from one row up was watching him, concerned. Around him a few stragglers were still filing out of the lecture hall, casting him amused looks and whispering.

“Are you okay?”

Sam fumbled to gather up his laptop and books. “Yeah, uh... yeah. I’m fine. Just tired.”

The girl, Sam though her name might be Sarah, or Susan -- something like that, held out a sheet of paper. “This is for you. Professor Daniels called on you for the second question set, but you didn’t answer. He says he’s looking forward to your analysis of the political climate that contributed to the dust bowl. Ten pages by Friday.”

Sam took the paper and glanced at the handwritten instructions, suppressing a groan.

She hesitated. “Are you sure you’re okay? You don’t need me to walk you to your car, or the clinic, do you?”

“No, thanks. Just not getting enough sleep.”

Sarah-Susan-Something gave him a dubious look, then shrugged and headed for the door. Sam dropped his computer power cord twice trying to pack everything into his bag, he was _exhausted_. The weak muscles of his healing arm didn’t help. By the time the cast came off the livid fury with his brother had faded somewhat and the routine of his college lifestyle as he struggled back into it absorbed his attention until he no longer lay awake in bed for hours, missing the Impala and a rootless, wandering life.

Sleep had brought it’s own issues in the form of relentless nightmares. Sam woke up with tears in his lashes, a scream in his throat and almost no memory to tell him why. Only that they had something to do with his dad.

They had gotten so bad that he’d actually gotten a prescription for some sleep aids from the campus clinic, thinking that maybe he needed more rest, but all the pills did was make it harder for him to wake up. He didn’t feel rested, he just felt trapped.

Sam cut the rest of his Friday classes and headed home to try and nap. The nightmares weren’t so bad in the daytime.

He was halfway there when a sense of disorientation washed over him. Sam distantly felt his knees strike soft earth as he clutching at his head. Barrages of images and sounds pounded through his mind, too fast to grasp more than the edges. It was like what had happened at Pam’s house, but so much more intense. And painful. His right shoulder was on fire with agony and he could feel the wet heat of free-flowing blood slicking his shirt to his skin. Somewhere overhead a crowd roared. Other sights, sounds. Dark fur and the crack of a baseball bat snapping in half. Numbers. They burned into his retinas until the sharpness of each line was itself a separate agony.

When it passed, Sam slowly stood up and made his way back to his apartment. He felt at least a decade older and shaky with the aftermath. He told himself firmly it was some kind of sleep-deprivation-induced migraine. A handful of aspirin and closed blinds took the worst of the edge off, and he settled on the couch with a thick blanket to try and get some sleep.

By sunset he’d rested enough to feel human again, ate a quick dinner of leftovers and resigned himself to losing half his weekend to his punishment paper. The headache was still there, but vastly more bearable than it had been earlier. One quick library trip and he settled in at the kitchen table to hammer out a draft. The work went okay for awhile, but by midnight he felt his focus fading. Sleep was dragging at him again and he glanced at the bedroom door. There were nightmares in there. He could _feel_ them hovering on the edges of his mind, just waiting.

They could keep waiting. Sam stood up and stretched the kinks out of his back. The nightmares didn’t seem to plague him when the sun was up, so he was determined to change his sleep schedule around to clear the fuzz out of his head. It was just a matter of coming up with something to do until dawn. He glanced at the books and the cursor blinking on his laptop screen.

Not the paper, that required a clarity of thought he’d lost hours ago. Sam hit save and closed the computer. One of his highlighters rolled across the table and Sam was abruptly reminded of the last place he had seen Jessica, studying at a table much like this one. Which reminded him that he did have something he could do to take up the night -- in the hall closet was a cardboard box full of the mementos he had saved from their apartment. A drawer-full of loose photos that hadn’t burned, framed portraits from her dresser. Some knickknacks, some of her clothes. Sam hadn’t been especially careful in collecting items, the desire to have some of her things warring with the desire to spend as little time in the ruins as possible. In the end, his dad had actually gathered most of the things in the box, and Sam had never gone through them.

It was a chore that was past time to be done. The smoky odor of the fire clung to everything in the box and permeated the closet it was stored in. Every time he opened the door he had to struggle through memories and... it was just time. Sam got a towel to lay things on, and dragged the box into the living room. It wasn’t until he opened it that he remembered Jessica’s things weren’t the only items in the box. Squarely on top, wrapped in a gym towel for protection, was his dad’s journal. Sam had slid it inside for safe keeping before leaving to hunt down Dean and all but forgotten that he even had it. He had the brief thought that it might be something Dean would like to have, then dismissed the idea. Dean could kiss his ass.

Jessica’s box forgotten for the moment, Sam leaned back on the couch and flipped through the handwritten pages of the worn leather book. His examination of the journal’s contents before tracking down his dad’s killer had been cursory and focused on the last few pages. Other than that it had been years since he had seen the thing. Much of what he remembered had been condensed, pages missing, pictures and sketches added. One sketch in particular caught his attention, it was a pencil drawing of a young man leaning over a car. The lines were simple, but his dad had the field skill of long practice in translating what he saw into images. Having met the man in person, Sam instantly recognized a younger version of Dean. The picture was casual, but could be the only reason a page of random scribbled notes on ghost-proofing a property hadn’t been ripped out to make room for something more organized. It made Sam curious as to what other little things might be hidden in the book his father had kept religiously for the last few decades of his life.

Sam glanced at the clock, then flipped to the beginning of the journal and started reading.

By the time the sun rose Sam was still reading, but with a growing suspicion that what had happened to his dad wasn’t the simple werewolf attack they had all assumed it was.

  
  
**Chapter Eighteen**

Louisiana was still hot, muggy, and bug infested, but maybe a little less for the passage of two months. Fall was setting in and some of the trees were starting to show their colors in slow fades of yellow and orange. He should have waited for Thanksgiving break to follow-up on his suspicions, but class had become a tedious chore and there was a driving urgency to his dreams that pushed him to book a plane ticket. One week wouldn’t ruin the semester, and setting his mind at ease might be the difference between flunking out and graduating.

Sam’s first impulse had been to contact Dean, but he decided against it. It wasn’t a difficult decision. Their last meeting still stung and Sam wasn’t willing to expose himself to Dean’s mocking ridicule again unless he was damn certain. The idea of calling Bobby was more tolerable, but Bobby hadn’t exactly been a bastion of support for him either. No, better to do this part on his own. It shouldn’t be dangerous, shouldn’t require back-up, and if he was _right_ \-- then Dean could come in and help all he wanted. John had been his dad too.

Back when he’d first learned what happened to his dad, Sam hadn’t been overly concerned with one werewolf and a single hunt gone wrong. John had sent him the journal, and when Sam discovered just how overdue his dad was, he read the last few entries to see if there were clues to his disappearance. Other than a couple of notes from his last hunt that mentioned the werewolf, they were uniformly run-of-the-mill. A harpy, a hobgoblin, some investigation into the Borego Phantom, a poltergeist. Nothing alarming and none of it anywhere near Shreveport.

When Sam took the time to read the entire journal, something more interesting popped up. Werewolves were unusual. The infectious nature of the disease meant that any time even the _possibility_ of one showed up, hunters leapt on it. In the entire time Sam traveled with his dad they’d only stumbled over one. In the last two years in the Shreveport area alone John had hunted them on five separate occasions. Twice he’d finished them off, three times they’d escaped. Sam was familiar enough with the subtleties of his dad’s writing to read between the lines. Whatever had happened, John didn’t think they were evading him on their own. The fact that he hadn’t stayed firmly in place in Louisiana to handle the problem meant that whoever was behind the mess was skilled and elusive. Werewolves weren’t subtle by nature when the change was on them, there was no way a hunter like his dad could have lost the trail without interference.

What possible reason could anyone have to be keeping werewolves in Shreveport? Sam was baffled, and angry. There was always the possibility he was completely wrong. But he wasn’t going to figure anything out in Palo Alto, so he’d packed a bag and caught the first flight out.

 

~~~~~~~

 

“You can send it to me if you want, but it’s not going to do you a damn bit of good.”

“Pam! I’m sorry about last time, but this is importa--”

“Don’t ‘Pam,’ me, Grumpy.” The sharp edge of Pamela’s voice gentled a little in Sam’s frustrated silence. “This isn’t me holding out on you, it’s just a fact. Your dad carried that journal --what, twenty years? He recorded all kinds of things in it. Bled on it, sweated on it, and hauled it from one hell hole to another. I’ve got no doubts it’s thoroughly saturated with _John_ , I just don’t think it’s saturated with _details_. He went on hundreds of hunts, but you think it’s holding solid impressions from some specific ones? What do you think it would tell you anyways? All I gave you last time was a direction. You already know where this is happening.”

“You were able to show me exactly where to find Dean, _exactly_ where--“

“Oh no,” she cut him off again. “That was you, and I’m not volunteering to ride that rollercoaster again. Sorry kiddo, but I couldn’t see straight for a week last time. You’ve got scary things circling in your lake and I’m not willing to be chum.”

“What does that even mean?”

“It means I might do another reading _for_ you, but I won’t do another reading _with_ you. Don’t ask.”

Sam hated to play the pity card, but desperate times. “I can’t do this on my own.”

“He’s dead, Sam,” Pam said, heartlessly immune. “He didn’t want you involved. Let it go.”

“I _can’t_ let it _go_! He was my _dad_. Dean put him down, but he wasn’t the one who made it necessary. Someone _did_ this. Dad sent me the journal, maybe this is what he wanted!”

“He sent you the journal with all the useful information ripped out and a note that he would be along to collect it in a few weeks,” she pointed out. “It doesn’t sound like it was a coded message, Sam. He just needed it somewhere safe and was planning to visit you anyways. You’re reading too much into this.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Sam flopped back on the bed. “I just -- I didn’t care back when it was just some freak accident He was a hunter, that’s how hunters die. It wasn’t my problem. But this isn’t a freak hunting accident any more! There are werewolves in Shreveport, and to have them just pop up and vanish, pop up and vanish -- where the hell are they when they aren’t killing people? Something isn’t right here.”

“I didn’t think ‘Werewolf Stalking 101’ was offered at your school. Isn’t your big brother some kind of monster-killing badass? I’m pretty sure you told me that’s what he did. Maybe you should give him a call,” she suggested in arch tones, having already heard Sam’s rant regarding Dean earlier in the call.

Sam scowled up at the popcorn ceiling. “He’s an asshole.”

“Sounds like a great reason to get killed.”

“If I’m right, there should be proof. When I find some, I’ll call him.”

“It’s your funeral.”

“I hear that a lot lately.”

“Well, that should probably tell you something.”

Sam sighed and switched the phone to his other ear. “Any suggestions?”

“I’m not sure my karma needs me to be a contributing factor in your grisly demise.”

“Pam.”

It was her turn to sigh. In the distance Sam could hear her doorbell ring.

“Company?”

“Yuppies. I’m going to contact their dead cat for them.”

Sam wasn’t entirely sure how to respond to that.

“No judging, Sam. Not all of us have cushy scholarship money to abuse.”

“I’m not abusing it! It’s just one week. If I don’t find anything I’ll go home, I’ll pass my classes; I’ll graduate in the spring.”

“And if you do find something?”

He hesitated. “I’ll still do all of that. It just might be two weeks instead of one.” In the background her doorbell rang again, more insistently. “Are you going to get that?”

“Waiting is good for people. Have you tried what you did before?”

“When before?”

Exasperation leaked into her voice. “What do you mean ‘when before,’ have you been bending spoons and levitating in your spare time? Before! When you tracked your brother down.”

“You mean just aimlessly driving around?” Sam asked incredulously. “I don’t even know if that was anything. I went through almost every bar in a hundred mile circle first; it was probably just process of elimination.”

“Convenient timing.”

“I tried it in Mississippi and didn’t find squat.” Which wasn’t exactly true, he had found something, only not when he was behind the wheel. “And I already tried it here. I’ve been here for three days already and _nothing_.”

“Sam, maybe there’s just nothing to find.”

“I don’t believe that. I _know_ the answer’s here.”

“How?” she pressed.

“I just do.”

“Then trust your instincts. And watch your back.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Sam had already tracked down the locations where his dad found werewolves before. For the most part they were smaller communities, isolated suburbs on Shreveport’s outskirts. He could find nothing else in common between them and no evidence of any other supernatural or suspicious activity. The victims the werewolves had claimed that brought them to his dad’s attention in the first place seemed equally random, targets of opportunity. A woman walking her dog, a man jogging, teenagers on their way home from a party, a homeless man, and others in similar situations. Sam’s frustration was growing, because despite a lack of any real evidence, that driving certainty that there was more to this had deep, unshakable roots.

There was something here, and he wasn’t leaving until he found it. He _couldn’t_ leave. Fortunately there were plenty of miles of scenic driving to burn out his frustration on. The Shreveport area was surrounded to the south and east by several huge tracts of protected wilderness. Nestled in among them was a hodgepodge of businesses and little towns that were welcoming to a traveler with a few dollars to spend looking for a cold drink and some local gossip. The gossip was interesting, but ultimately useless. It seemed that every person Sam spoke to had a story about monsters in the forest. Pets gone missing, strange howls and screams in the middle of the night, rumors about disappearances and deaths -- but no focus, no common ground that could give him a place to start. His drives grew longer and longer as he wound his way over park service roads, highways, and smooth, dusty lanes where asphalt would be years in coming, if it happened at all.

He drove in the city too, keeping fingers crossed that he would see something, somewhere that would strike him as important. Something that whatever gift he had would recognize as _significant_. But nothing ever struck him that way, and invariably he ended up in the countryside, just roaming.

Six days and nothing. Nothing in the paper, the archives, the rumor mill, or on the streets. Just _nothing_. Sam pulled over to the side of the road in the growing dusk, turned the car off, and banged his forehead lightly against the steering wheel. Lack of sleep was making his thoughts like molasses. The nightmares hadn’t slacked off and the only real rest he was getting lately was a couple of hours after dawn. He remembered marginally more of his dreams now, the echo of a gunshot, a roar of fury, the taste of blood in his mouth... laughter. And his dad, lost somewhere in the mess. Sam sat up and reached for the keys.

Then jumped, slamming his knee into the steering wheel when someone tapped on the window.

Sam looked up and met the stern brown eyes of a man dressed in some nondescript security uniform. He had a gun holstered at his hip. Sam flicked his eyes to rearview mirror and saw a second man sitting in a dark SUV parked about ten feet behind his rental. In the back of his mind his dad’s frequent lecture about paying attention and staying alive played in his head. Only now the voice sounded more like Dean’s. Sam shoved it from his thoughts and rolled the window down partway. He wondered if his brother was about to get an opportunity to have something cutting written on Sam’s tombstone regarding stupidity and firearms. Specifically the stupidity of not having one.

“Can I help you?” Sam asked politely.

The man’s face relaxed into an approximation of a smile. “I was just about to ask you that. Are you lost or in need of assistance?”

“No. Is there a problem?”

“We don’t see many people out on these roads. There’s nothing back here but a private ranch. Wanted to make sure you were okay.”

Sam gave him a sheepish smile. “I had a fight with my girlfriend and was just out driving, blowing off some steam, you know?”

The man’s expression relaxed another fraction. “You sure you don’t need any help getting back out on the main road?” There was a tension to the conversation that Sam didn’t understand, but it raised all the hairs on the back of his neck.

“I’m sure. I’m just going to give her a call and see if it’s safe to go home yet. Have a great night!” Sam rolled his window up and made a show of pulling out his cell phone and punching in a number. He gave the security guard another friendly smile through the glass. The man nodded congenially and walked away. Sam watched in the mirror as he rejoined his partner in the SUV. They had some kind of brief, intent discussion that ended with a shrug, then the SUV pulled around Sam’s rental and vanished around a corner about a quarter mile ahead. Sam noted it carefully, waited fifteen minutes, then followed.

The first few miles on the new road weren’t much more interesting than the old ones had been. Sam passed several turn offs with no way of knowing where the SUV had gone. He was contemplating turning around and exploring some of the other side roads when he noticed a fence on the right. It was about a dozen feet back from the road and hard to see through the evening gloom and thick shroud of trees, but it looked to be metal. A few times he thought he saw someone walking beside it. Exercising? _Patrolling_? His curiosity was pricked, but he was careful to maintain his speed. A lost boyfriend looking for the road out was one thing. A strange car slowly cruising the property was quite another. About half a mile in Sam caught site of a large white building in the distance through the trees, and a couple of minutes later an iron gate with a guard booth. A man was leaning outside of it smoking. He straightened up when he caught sight of Sam’s car and ground the cigarette under his foot, watching intently. Sam drove on.

The first thing he did when he got back to the city was change motels. He moved to a broken-down looking place on the north side of the city. It had the most protected parking he could find. No one was going to see his car on a casual drive-by. The rental was under his Elmore name and Sam had no doubt the security team had gotten the license plate and had the means to identify him, but even if they bothered it would do them no good. Sam Elmore didn’t exist, and there was no record of that name at his new motel.

The next thing he did way lay his area map out on the bed in his room and try to plot from memory all the places his aimless driving had taken him. He had never ended up in the same place twice, but every place he had ended up was within five miles of the ranch. A five mile radius. Neat pins on a map depicted a lopsided circle around a private ranch with security guards jumpy enough to question people on public roads.

The next thing Sam did was use his knowledge of the city to find and purchase a gun.

Dean would’ve been proud.

  
  
**Chapter Nineteen**

“Hi, this is Sam Serling. I’d like to speak with--“ Sam riffled through the print offs on the table, “Kenneth Baker, please.”

“May I ask what this is in regards to?” the receptionist’s asked in a warm, professional voice.

“He’s the listed agent for L.B. Holdings in Louisiana. They’ve got some property outside Shreveport I’m interested in purchasing and I just can’t seem to find anyone else to contact about it. I was hoping he could direct me to someone I could discuss it with.”

“Mr. Baker doesn’t directly handle accounts. If you can hold for a moment I can see if someone is available to talk with you.”

“Sure.” The phone clicked over to a few repetitive measures of classical music. The music looped seven times before a different woman picked up. Her voice notably lacked the warmth of the first person’s.

“Is this Mr. Serling?”

“It is, are you the person I need to talk with about the L.B. Holdings contact?”

“No, I’m sorry, but the person who handles that account is out of the country.”

“I see. When will they be back?”

“Not for several weeks. However, I doubt our client will be interested in parting with any of their properties.”

“I’m willing to offer a considerable amount. It’s really very important to me that I speak with them. I’m sure I can make it worth their while.”

“I’ll make them aware of your interest. Have a nice day.” The dial tone was humming in Sam’s ear almost before he realized she had hung up. He was sure she really intended to pass his interest along when she hadn’t even asked for his number. It wasn’t worth calling back, they were obviously not going to give him so much as a real name. Sam flipped a pencil between his fingers and considered his options.

Other than the name of the company that owned the property and date of purchase, about ten years ago, he’d been unable to discover much of anything about the ranch. Google Earth gave him an overhead view of the general layout; one large building, several smaller outbuildings, and a parking lot surprisingly large for a private ranch. There didn’t seem to be any central residence, which increased Sam’s suspicions about what they could need all the guards for.

Driving past the place wasn’t going to get him anything but trouble. Instead, Sam bought a second-hand motorcycle and rode out, pulling over a few miles from the ranch. He stashed the bike in the woods and settled where he could see the gate for some old fashioned surveillance.

It was intensely boring.

Guards came in, guards went out, and sometimes someone walked by the fence line with a German shepherd. Otherwise everything was quiet. Sam watched it in shifts. Some in the daytime, and some through the night. He carried food and water and lay perfectly still for hours at a time. Absolutely nothing interesting occurred.

He arrived shortly after dawn on the third day knowing that he had to make a decision soon. He was already well into a second week away from school, and other than suspicions, had nothing to show for it. Dean and Bobby wouldn’t be impressed that Sam discovered some private property and Sam didn’t have a single good reason why some vague maybe’s had been good enough to send him halfway across the country.

When he arrived at his surveillance point all of those worries fell away in favor of something finally worthy of attention. The guards were still there, in greater number than Sam had seen before. So were delivery trucks, with a bustle and frenzy that was a complete turnaround from the casual laid-back attitude Sam had observed for the better part of a week. Not just one delivery truck, but truck after truck after truck until Sam counted ten before it was even noon. The driver’s weren’t being let in either. A truck would stop at the gate, the driver would hop out, flash some identification, and then be invited into the small guardhouse while one of the guards drove the truck in. About half an hour later the truck would reappear and the driver would climb in and leave.

By mid-afternoon the last truck had left and the patrols picked up in frequency. Sam, who had only planned to be out in the woods until about noon, had finished the last of his water hours ago. His stomach was threatening to start in on his backbone, but he stayed locked in place. His patience was rewarded when the first cars started arriving just as the sun set. With dark tinted windows and the evening shade he couldn’t see inside, but the expensive models and respectful air of the gate guards told Sam enough.

Rich people. Important people.

Sam wasn’t sure what things were adding up to, but he was absolutely sure he didn’t like it.

He needed to get closer.

After three days of observation Sam had a good idea of how the patrols worked, and his time on Google Earth had given him a general familiarity with the layout. Behind the dense layer of trees was a wide open field and in the middle of the field was the largest of the structures. There were floodlights everywhere around the perimeter. Between that building and the tree line on the left was the parking lot, and with as many cars as had come in Sam was fairly confident it would be close to full. Cars were better coverage than short grass, especially with the light. He waited until the guards were distracted by a loud commotion from a late arrival and the canine patrol had just passed, then crouched and darted across the dirt road. He paused to make sure no one had seen him, then navigated along the fence in the dark until he reached the cars. There weren’t any people in the parking lot. He drew a deep breath, then pulled himself over the six foot iron fence, dropped lightly to the ground, and ducked down against a Mercedes.

So far so good.

He scanned the parking lot for any signs of life, but all was still. There was another patrol coming along the fence. Moving around the front bumper he breathed a sigh of relief when they passed by without incident. Now he needed to find a back door to the white washed, wood paneled building. From what he could tell it had no windows, but there were security cameras tucked under the eaves. It was pure luck that no one had spotted him yet. He needed to get inside before his luck ran out. Without setting off any alarms on the closely parked cars that were providing him cover.

His preoccupation with careful speed was the only excuse he had when he snuck by a Jag and a silver door on the BMW beside it abruptly swung open. Crouched, he wasn’t able to dodge and the blow sent him sprawling on the gravel. The man who climbed out was hastily buttoning dress pants under his shirt tails, but he caught sight of Sam before Sam could scramble away. His eyes widened in surprise.

“What the--“ Sam sprung up and punched him before he could get out the next word. The man stumbled back clutching his nose and Sam moved to grab him by the throat before he could start yelling, but froze, indecisive, when an ear splitting scream rang out of the car. Curled into the backseat a petite blonde was grabbing at the opposite door handle and yelling loud enough to wake the dead. Extra flood lights snapped on in the parking lot and somewhere close by a dog started barking. Sam could hear people calling to each other and quickly reversed his direction. If he could just make it back over the fence...

He barely managed three steps before someone tackled him and they both went down in a tangle of limbs and swearing. Punching the guy had shut him up, but it hadn’t slowed him down and what he lacked in skill he made up for in determination. Sam knew the man wouldn’t be able to hold him long, was almost free within second of being grabbed. But those seconds were enough.

Sam froze at the distinctive click of a pistol cocking. “Stand up. Slowly.”

The man he’d been wrestling lurched up and leaned back against his car, wiping at his bloody nose and even more ineffectually at his filthy clothes. There was hatred in his eyes and a sadistic sort of anger that Sam had seldom encountered in his life, and never been at the mercy of. Sam stood slowly as directed and turned slightly so his own back was to the Jaguar and he could see the guard too. The guard was well trained, he stood a good six feet away. Sam started to step towards him, but a tightening of expressing and trigger finger convinced him it was a bad idea. He didn’t think he would be able to talk his way out of this, but it was at least worth a try.

“Look, man. I was out camping. I saw all these lights and just wanted to know what was going on. Maybe get some food. I didn’t mean to hurt anyone, he hit me with the car!” As cover stories went it was lame, but the only other story that came immediately to mind involved car theft. Sam thought that would go over worse. They didn’t seem like a ‘call the police,’ kind of crowd.

A familiar voice joined the conversation. “Out camping now? I thought you were hiding from your girlfriend.” Sam hid a wince as the guard he had met on the road the other day joined the spectacle.

“She threw me out.”

“Then she won’t miss you, will she. Turn and face the car.”

The first guard had been joined by two more. The security guard from the other day, Sam assumed he was some kind of supervisor, had brought along his own help, in the form of three more guards and a dog. All were armed, and three guns were trained on Sam. One of them helped the blonde out of the backseat. She smoothed down her blue sequined cocktail dress and hurried to embrace the man Sam had punched.

“Eliot, your face!” Eliot waved her off, dabbing at his nose with a handkerchief someone produced for him.

Sam reluctantly turned. Someone snapped handcuffs on him and tightened them down a notch too tight. They patted him down and found his gun and the knife at his belt, but were careless around his boots. Things were looking up. Rough hands grabbed his shoulder and spun him around. His back slammed into the car but he slid down to a heap on the gravel when his feet were kicked out from under him.

“Who the hell are you?” another voice demanded.

“I’m just a traveler, I didn’t mean to crash your party. The gun’s just for protection. I swear, man,” Sam stuck to his story.

Eliot snarled something in a harsh sounding foreign language.

“He looks like a filthy liar to me,” a lazy voice sliced through the low rumble of the crowd and right through Sam’s frantic planning, bringing his thoughts to a halt. “Did you check him for weapons? You might want to check again. He looks the sort, and I know what kind of people you employ around here.”

The guard in charge shot the speaker a vicious look, but nodded to one of his men to do a more thorough search. This one found the boot knife, but Sam barely noticed. Anger clouded his mind like he could never remember experiencing before.

Dean, of course it was _Dean_ standing there. His brother looked relaxed and vaguely amused, one hand holding a drink and arm wrapped around the shoulders of an irate woman in a slinky crimson dress. She paid no attention to Sam, berating the guards in tightly clipped words that sent half of them running. Sam tried to breath around the tightness in his throat. He needed to think, he needed to make some sense of the situation.

Dean looked... good. Sam noticed even through the red haze of his rage. The dirt and bruises, battered jeans and worn t-shirt Sam last saw his brother in had transformed into pressed slacks and a crisp dress shirt with French cuffs. He looked perfectly natural at the side of the elegant, furious woman, who shrugged off his arm while she lectured the guards. It was all Sam could do not to scream at him. It might have been _more_ than he could do, but behind the distantly amused expression Sam thought he saw something else, something... dangerous. Something that reminded him of a burning house and a dark barn. Gasoline in sunlight. Hands on his body, touching... A spark of heat that wasn’t rage made him look abruptly away, though he glanced back in time to catch the hint of a sardonic smile at the corner of Dean’s mouth.

Eliot was still railing over his head, rant broken up by the occasional exchange with Dean’s date. Finally she held up a hand to stop him.

“Enough. It is rude to converse in a language that all present do not understand.”

“I don’t _care_ what he understands!”

“I think she meant me,” Dean offered, sliding one arm around the woman’s waist. Her anger abated somewhat, she fitted herself against him with a generous smile.

“Of course I meant you.”

“Look what he has done to my face!” The handkerchief the man held to his face was darkening with blood and he pulled it back briefly to reveal a rapidly swelling nose. Broken. Sam felt a brief surge of satisfaction. “I want him to _suffer_ for this, Carmen.”

“We’ll treat him like we treat all uninvited guests,” Carmen said patiently.

“Not good enough,” the man spat. “I don’t pay to be abused because your security can’t keep random lowlifes off the grounds!”

“Then what do you suggest?” she asked in a tone that indicated her patience was dwindling.

The man gazed down at Sam for a long, cold moment, then smiled tightly. Sam’s stomach tightened. “Tie him up and throw him to the wolves.”

“Of course.”

“No,” he corrected her, eyes still locked on Sam, “not in the ring. Before they turn. I heard about the girl last month, I doubt the animals will care about gender as long as it’s warm and good to fuck.” The bottom fell out of Sam’s stomach.

Carmen glanced at Sam, then shrugged. “They never have before. This will satisfy you?”

“What girl?” Dean asked.

“One of the waitresses was caught copying down a member’s credit card number,” Carmen said as casually as if commenting on the weather. “We made sure the staff understood that we don’t tolerate that kind of behavior.”

“You handed her over to the animals before they turned?”

“They seemed appreciative. We let them eat what was left of her after the show.”

Sam didn’t know how Dean could even stand to touch her, but he seemed completely at ease with Carmen pressed against his side. Sam got the sinking feeling that maybe he’d misjudged Dean. Again.

“That seems like a waste,” Dean’s voice broke into his thoughts. His brother was looking at him thoughtfully and the calculation in the calm green eyes raised the hair on Sam’s skin.

“I am the one bleeding! I say the punishment is fair.”

“Let’s not squabble in the parking lot like children over a broken toy. Bring him inside, we will discuss the details there.”

Sam didn’t need to hear any more. His hands were bound but his feet were free. If he could get his hands in front he could probably get over the fence even in handcuffs -- but they would have to kill him before he let them drag him inside after that little exchange. Being dragged off for some kind of werewolf gangbang didn’t even bear contemplating.

Eliot was done arguing with Carmen, but he wasn’t done laying into the guards. The volume of his anger escalated until Carmen was forced to step in again. Saw waited until everyone was more focused on the arguing than watching him, then twisted his bound hands under his ass to get them in front in one smooth move, lunged off the ground to knock over the lone guard between him and the fence line, and sprinted. Two shots whistled by but both missed. Sam covered half the ground between himself and possible safety before something slammed into the back of his head and everything went dark.

  
  
**Chapter Twenty**

When the world returned it brought with it the odors of clean straw and wet fur, and someone’s face pressed against his bare stomach. Sniffing. It rubbed against his skin where his shirt was hiked up, breaking up the sniffs with an occasional quick lick. Sam’s head ached as badly as when he’d had the last concussion, but he felt only a distant sense of alarm as he struggled to remember where he was.

Then he _did_ remember and scrambled frantically back from whatever was touching him. Or tried too, because it turned out that bound hands and bare feet in loose straw didn’t make for a speedy escape. Neither did hands like steel locking onto his shoulders and pinning him back as a low rumbling snarl spilled through the air. Sam knew a warning when he head one and froze in place. His hands were still cuffed behind his back. They ached where he was laying on them. A moment later the sniffing resumed. Sam lay perfectly still and looked around cautiously. Metal bars like some old time prison cell, a bucket, and the loose straw on the floor. It smelled like a barn, but with a note more hair-raising than anything cattle or horse. Beyond the bars were stone walls. Everything was illuminated in harsh white light from the florescent fixtures overhead. There was a clock on the wall opposite the cage, and from down the hallway came a low, eerie howl. It didn’t sound at all like a wolf, but it didn’t sound like a man either. Sam turned his head slowly and saw another cage like the one he was trapped in. A man stared back at him through the bars. He was dressed in filthy scrubs and had a wild mane of blond hair straggling past his shoulders. Dark, expressionless eyes bore into Sam’s own. Then the man deliberately skinned his gums back baring his teeth in a full snarl. He was too close to be the one that howled, so there were at least three of the... creatures.

Sam kept his breathing steady and forced himself to look down at the one so interested in his belly. All he could see from his angle was the filthy mane of tangled salt-and-pepper hair that covered the whatever-it-was's head. A heavy beard was scratching against the delicate skin of Sam’s stomach, and it wore scrubs just like the one in the next cell.

“Hello?”

The creature froze, and hot breath panted against Sam’s skin.

“Um, can you talk?” Sam tried again.

Another of the low rumbles vibrated against his skin, fingers like talons dimpled his clothes and Sam swallowed. He didn’t want those claws in him, he didn’t know what these things were. Then the head turned slightly and Sam found himself staring into wild amber eyes. They weren’t exactly human, but there was a definite intelligence burning in them. These things couldn’t be werewolves. Werewolves didn’t change until the moon rose, and unless he had been out longer than the clock indicated, the moon wasn’t up yet. After the change they had claws, and were inhumanly feral. That didn’t explain the thing crouching over him.

“Don’t... move.”

Sam barely caught the words breathed against his skin, strained to hear the rest.

“Don’t move, I won’t... hurt you.”

Sam did his best to stay completely still as it continued its nose-first investigation of his body. But he remembered the discussion in the parking lot and couldn’t help but flinch away when the hot, wet tongue licked a broad stripe just above the line of his jeans without warning. The creature’s reaction was instantaneous, claws ripped into his clothes and punctured his skin at his waist and thigh to hold him still. Sam yelled, startled -- and echoing howls rang up and down the corridor. Teeth sank in just above his hip and he could feel vibrating tension wrack the emaciated body. Sam stifled himself and after a few more tense moments the claws eased out and the creature licked over the wound on his side. There was the wild look in its eyes, it was hungry, starving. For everything.

Which was exactly what the monsters who'd thrown him in here were hoping for.

Finally, after interminable minutes, during which Sam didn’t know if one shaky breath would be his last, it slowly crawled backwards. Every move so graceful Sam didn’t understand how it was even possible in a human frame. “Sit up,” the creature rasped. “Slowly. Scoot back against the wall. I need to get your stink out of my nose.”

Since it had just spent who knew how long getting his stink in its nose that seemed a little rich. Sam wasn’t going to complain. He tried to ease the cuffs back around to the front, but whoever had thrown him in the cell had also tied a rope connecting his biceps. He resigned himself to the situation and eased away until the bars were pressed into his back. Amber eyes stared hungrily at him from about seven feet away.

“You smell like him,” it muttered after a moment.

“Like who?” Sam asked cautiously.

“One of us.” Its feral smile showed off decidedly pointed teeth that looked jaggedly wrong in a human mouth.

“What are you?” Another one of the earsplitting howls rang down the hallway.

The creature cocked his head, expression suddenly distant as he listened to something Sam could only imagine. “Werewolf,” he whispered when his eyes refocused.

“Impossible.”

“I thought so too, once. But then I made the wrong bet and I know better now. You smell delicious.” Sam wasn’t sure he meant for eating. There was a noticeable bulge beneath the thin scrubs.

“You said I smelled like one of you, what did you mean?” Sam asked hastily, wanting the conversation redirected. It was immensely stronger than he was, and if it wanted something from him Sam knew there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it. Maybe enrage it into just killing him instead.

“There was another one, one of us. He smelled like you. He wanted to help us.”

“My dad?” Sam’s voice was sharper than he intended. “You knew my dad? John?”

“John. Yes.”

“How was he going to help you?”

“He was going to help us die,” it said simply. “We can’t. We heal too fast. You can slam your head on the bars until the blood slicks the floor, or chew your wrists to the bone, but you always wake up. They drug us, and move us and make us hurt people. We can’t help it, it’s inside us. You don’t know, you can’t know, what it’s like. But he did.” The amber eyes were full of secrets, and what Sam was pretty certain was more than a touch of insanity.

“How many of you are there?”

It turned slowly to look down the hallway, listening again to Sam had no idea what.

“Six tonight. Sometimes seven. John killed one of the oldest, and they made him take his place. But he escaped. He promised he would come back, but he never did. You smell like the other one too. That one also promised us death.”

“Dean?”

He shrugged, indifferent.

“How long has the other one been here?”

The man hugged his knees to his chest, rocking. He seemed to have trouble focusing on Sam’s questions, but answered after a moment. “He comes when the others come. Last moon. The one before. Not long.”

“What do they do here?”

The man froze then turned towards the front of the cage almost faster than Sam could see just as another voice rang out. “Don’t go bothering Old Grey with your questions. You’ll find out for yourself soon enough. Why spoil the surprise?”

Sam’s nostrils flared and he fought the urge to swear as Dean and Carmen strolled into view. Eliot from the parking lot was in the lead, along with three guards.

“This is not what you promised me,” Eliot spat, gesturing towards Sam. “All it’s doing is talking, I want him ripped open and bleeding. This is not what you promised!” Sam saw the corner of Dean’s eye twitch, but otherwise his expression didn’t change.

“He’ll be bleeding plenty when he goes in the ring,” Carmen told Eliot with the strained patience of someone who was getting tired of repeating themselves. “I’ve already agreed not to have him turned to fill our empty cage, so there should be plenty of sport to satisfy your appetite.”

“Anyone suffers in the ring, look at what he did to my face! If this wolf isn’t interested, throw him to another.”

“Can’t do that,” Dean cut in. “He smells like this one now. You put him in another box and all they’ll do is kill him. If that’s what you want, might as well wait until everyone can enjoy the show. We tossed him in here with Old Grey because he has enough of a grip on himself to leave the guy alive. Looks like it’s a little too much restraint for other things.”

Carmen nodded in agreement and Eliot turned a darker shade of red. Sam hoped his heart gave out, but then the color faded a little and he seemed to regain control. A tight smile curved his lips. “If the beast won’t have him, then drag him out of there and I’ll do it myself. Diane won’t appreciate my temper in her bed tonight and this one deserves it.”

“Will that satisfy you?” Carmen asked as if the request was one she handled every day.

Maybe it was.

Eliot nodded and opened his mouth, but Dean cut off whatever he was going to say with a rude snort. “Of course it won’t. You’re a voyeur, Eliot. It’s why you wanted him thrown in here in the first place. You get your rocks off on watching the action, not being in the middle of it. You really think you’re going to enjoy doing the deed as much as watching someone else pound away at him?”

Eliot studied Dean for a moment. “What do you suggest?”

Dean shrugged. “I’m not really into watching, and he’s easy on the eyes.” He glanced at the clock on the wall. “We’ve got about twenty minutes until the real show kicks off. Not a lot of time to get creative, but it’s long enough to make him sorry for denting your grill. I’m in the mood for a quick fuck and I don’t think Carmen’s free for a quickie.” He grinned at her. Carmen shocked Sam by grinning back.

“I’d love too, but someone has to keep this place running smoothly. You go have fun, we’ll have fun together later.”

“I’m counting on it.” Dean leaned down and kissed her. It went on long enough that she wobbled on her heels a little when he straightened up. “How much of your lipstick am I wearing?”

“Just enough to make you mine.” She turned her attention back to Eliot while Dean wiped at his mouth.

“What about this, will this satisfy you?”

“I want him _broken_. I want him cut up and--”

Dean interrupted the rant, looking bored. “Broken takes time, and messy takes time. We don’t have either. I’m paying for the _show_ , and this is just some cheap entertainment on the side. Let me have him. You can watch me get my rocks off, and then have all the blood you want when they rip him apart on the floor. But hurry up and decide, because otherwise we’ll still be here when the bell rings and then no one gets to play with him but the wolves.”

Eliot glanced between Sam and Dean, then nodded to Carmen. “Yes, this arrangement is satisfactory.”

  
  
**Chapter Twenty One**

Sam thought about refusing when Carmen ordered him out of the cell. At the least it would cause a struggle, and he doubted the werewolf, Old Grey, would be able to control himself through that. A fight offered the attractive possibilities of leaving Sam dead under the claws of the werewolf or in a hail of gunfire. Either was preferable to being publically raped and then ripped apart for sport.

He might have done it if there hadn’t been _something_ in Dean’s eyes when he glanced at him. Some kind of subtle tension that told Sam not everything was as it seemed. Old Grey had told Sam that Dean had promised to help them die, promised just like their dad had promised. Dean could have lied of course, saying anything to stop the creature from giving him away as related to John, but Sam thought the odds were pretty high that Dean didn’t just happen to be a member of the same monster-keeping exclusive club that had also destroyed their dad.

Or maybe he didn’t want to die and was just grasping at straws.

Either way, when Carmen ordered him out and the door opened, Sam slowly found his feet and obeyed. Old Grey paid no attention to the guns aimed at him, as if they were beneath his notice. As instruments of death, Sam imagined they were. He wanted to die -- why worry about guns?

“Why didn’t you attack when the door was open?” Sam asked the werewolf when the cage door clanged shut again.

“They won’t kill me with their bullets. But they hurt us, and when we disobey they hurt us more. Then we still wake up.”

“You don’t expect us to kill off our cash cows, now do you?” Carmen asked archly. “The occasional shotgun blast to the gut does wonders for teaching manners. Especially when you disinfect the wound with salt.”

Old Grey snarled at her, but kept his distance even with the welded bars between them. Carmen glanced at the clock, brushed Dean’s hand fondly, and walked away with a staccato click of her high heels.

Dean shoved him forward and Sam stumbled into one of the guards. They half prodded, half dragged him down the corridor, up a short flight of stairs and through two reinforced metal gates. The gates had keypads and card swipes on them. One of the guards opened both with a card he pulled from the breast pocket of his uniform. Eventually they reached a tall wooden door set back off the main hallway. Dean had said twenty minutes before whatever show started. The trip hadn’t taken more than five. Sam told himself firmly that there was nothing that could happen in fifteen minutes he couldn’t live with.

Wished he believed it.

Eliot opened the door with a flourish. “After you.”

The guards shoved Sam into a reasonably well appointed hotel-like room and herded him until he stood by the foot of the bed. When he turned to see where Dean was, Sam was further disheartened to see that they had picked up more people. It wasn’t a huge crowd, but even a handful of finely-appointed party-goers was more than he really wanted witnessing whatever was about to happen. His hope that Dean had some kind of plan that would get him out of this situation was fading fast.

Dean nodded shortly to Eliot, then advanced on Sam.

“It’ll hurt less if you cooperate.”

“Fuck you.”

Dean’s smile was edged with a warning no one else in the room could see. “Exactly. But you can do what I say and we can all walk to our next appointments,” Dean tugged up one sleeve to check a heavy gold watch on his wrist and frowned slightly, “or you can fight me, and I can get more creative. I like to start with the kneecaps when I’m putting bullets in body parts, don’t you?”

Sam didn’t answer, eyes flicking between Dean and the handful of people spread out behind him. Some had found chairs, a few spoke quietly among themselves. Like this was exactly what Dean had said -- some cheap entertainment before the big show. And Sam was scheduled to be a feature in both.

Fantastic.

“Turn around.”

Sam thought about refusing. He glanced over his shoulder again. They now had the undivided attention of every person in the room. A shudder of revulsion ran through him and he turned slowly to face the bed. Dean’s hands were on his arms a moment later, running from his aching shoulders, over the rope, and down to where the handcuffs bit into the thin skin of bruised wrists. He squeezed one of Sam’s hands. A signal? Trying to be comforting? Sam wasn’t sure, but the touch was deliberate and offered some unexpected support.

“Get these off,” Dean snapped to someone, tugging at the chain linking Sam’s wrists together.

“But, sir--“

“I’m not saying let him loose, I’m saying I don’t want these digging into me when I’ve got him over the bed. Cuff him in the front.”

There was a delay while the guards talked in low voices by the door. Sam could hear people shifting impatiently and some of the conversations picked back up. One of Dean’s hands stayed wrapped loosely around his wrist while Sam stared straight ahead at the ugly linen wallpaper and tried to think of nothing at all.

After a couple of minutes Dean stepped out to the side. Sam could see him watching with crossed arms while other hands fumbled at Sam’s wrists. The rope on his biceps was cut and after some scrabbling with a key, the handcuffs clicked open. Sam inhaled sharply in relief. The ache in his shoulders and hands was almost worse now that he could move them, after an hour pinned back. The guard fastened the cuffs back around his wrists, in the front this time.

Then the guard was gone and it was Dean behind him again. Dean’s hands, almost impersonal, roamed over his shoulder, his side. Over the waistband of his jeans, down his thigh. It took a moment before Sam realized his brother’s hands were inspecting injuries from earlier in the cage.

“It’s a shame we can’t keep this toy longer,” Dean commented to the room while he touched.

“He doesn’t look like he’d make a very good pet,” someone called back.

Dean snorted, so close that Sam could feel the breath on the back of his neck. His voice was almost in Sam’s ear when he replied.

“That’s just because you don’t know how to handle him.” A hard shove punctuated the statement, sending Sam stumbling into the bed where he barely managed to stop himself from slamming face first down onto the scratchy comforter.

Dean’s hands reached around and undid the buttons of his fly. “Hold still, or I’ll cut them off,” he ordered when Sam tensed. “See how happy you are fighting werewolves with your junk hanging out.” Sam had been having trouble imagining what could be worse than his current situation. Dean’s suggestion definitely qualified and he didn’t resist while his pants were tugged into a loose puddle around his ankles. Dean ran an admiring hand over his naked skin. “That’s a great ass.”

About that time Sam decided life might not be worth living after all and focused his attention on breathing and listing the states in alphabetical order. He tuned out the room and woodenly obeyed Dean’s directions until he was lying face down on the comforter, feet still on the ground, facing the crowd. He stared at the pale lavender wall behind them. Sam thought he could see some white near the top of it, could probably use another coat of paint.

Dean was exchanging some comments with the others, but Sam wasn’t listening anymore. He was successful in ignoring everything until Dean kicked his ankles further apart and ran a hand up the inside of his thigh. He jumped despite himself and goose bumps chased down his body. Sam kept his breathing steady, reminding himself that he’d done this before, had even enjoyed it. He tried to tell himself that he trusted Dean, but even in panic control mode he couldn’t make himself swallow that one.

A drawer slammed in front of him and Sam opened the eyes he’d barely been aware of closing. Dean was frowning at the nightstand. “There’s no lube.”

“He doesn’t deserve lube. We’re almost out of time, just do it,” Eliot snapped.

Dean turned a scowl on him. “The lubes for me, asshole. I don’t give a damn if _he_ hurts, but I’m not skinning my dick because you couldn’t wait a couple more minutes.”

How many minutes? Sam wondered. How long had all of this taken so far? It felt like ages to him, he didn’t have a clear sense of the time.

Dean snapped at the guards in the doorway. “You. Lube, I know there’s some around here.”

The man hesitated, looking nervous. “Just lube, or do you need--“

Dean snorted. “I’ve got my own protection, thanks.”

“I’m shocked,” one of the women against the wall cut in dryly.

Dean flashed her the same smile he’d given Carmen. “It’s a boy scout thing.”

“I bet you looked cute in a uniform.”

Sam tuned the banter out again. How long since they’d entered the room?

Not long enough, Sam decided a couple of minutes later. Not nearly long enough. The guard had been quick in his errand, and Dean had stopped wasting time. Sam heard the quiet sound of a zipper and whistle of appreciation, then the room fell quiet. Dean stepped up between his legs and braced a hand on Sam’s hip. There was no more warning than that before Dean started to press the swollen tip of his cock in and Sam’s breath hitched. It felt even bigger than it had the last time. At least then, he thought bitterly, there’d been the benefit of foreplay and some patience. And actual consent -- that was nice too. He swallowed a gasp at the next shove, but couldn’t stifle a short cry as Dean pressed in another inch and Sam tensed despite himself.

“Remember what I said before,” Dean panted harshly behind him. Sam thought he meant about struggling and wanted to scream that he was doing the best he could. Then Dean’s hand squeezed his hip hard, and the touch was so familiar... before. The last time. Sam did remember. He drew a deep breath and got his muscles under control, focusing on pushing back instead of just lying there. Anything that could end the nightmare faster. With his cooperation the worst of the pain faded quickly and soon Dean was pumping in and out smoothly, each deep thrust a burn that sparked things low in Sam’s body despite himself.

One more humiliation.

Sam endured as quietly as he could, staring balefully at anything in the room that wasn’t a person. The quiet squeak of the mattress was a counter point to the thrusts shaking his body and he carefully ignored the quick, furtive movements from some of the chairs. He didn’t want to know.

It seemed like an eternity before Dean shoved himself especially deep and held there, trembling. After a moment he sighed lustily and withdrew completely. A tied off condom was tossed casually into a trash can by the bed and Dean stepped back into Sam’s view, fastening his pants.

“Ladies and gentlemen -- if any of you are ladies or gentleman,” he added with mock courtesy, “that concludes our show for the evening. I hope everyone enjoyed it as much as I did.”

“Do you have any more performances scheduled?”

“I have one later this evening, but it’s more of a private show,” Dean admitted.

“Anything’s for sale here.”

“For the right price,” Dean agreed. “But it’s probably more than you want to pay.”

“You’d be surprised what I can afford,” the man’s smile was knowing.

Dean’s smile thinned and he dropped the bantering. “I’ll let Carmen know you’re interested in a ringside seat.”

That seemed to kill the conversation. Dean started to say something else, but just then a low tone filled the room followed by a clinically cold voice. “Ten minute warning.”

The gathered group started shuffling out, casual conversation resuming now that the entertainment was done. Last to leave was Eliot, who was looking down at Sam with undisguised hatred. Sam started to shift away, but Dean put a knee on the bed and a hand on the back of his neck, gentle pressure holding Sam in place.

“That wasn’t enough.”

“Tough,” Dean said coolly. “That’s all the time we had. Next time you decide to exchange blows with random trespassers try to do it earlier and I’ll do a better job.”

Sam could feel the weight of Eliot’s stare on his back for another tense minute.

“You’re going to be late,” Dean pointed out. “Diane might find someone else to cuddle up with, and where are you going to find another woman who puts up with your shit?”

Eliot drew himself up. “Anywhere I want.” But he walked, and that was all Sam wanted. It left him alone in the room with just Dean and two of the original three guards. Dean glanced at them.

“Get out.”

“We can’t leave him unattended.”

“Does he _look_ unattended? Or in any shape to put up a fight? He’s handcuffed and I can take care of myself. Our business isn’t quite finished and I don’t want an audience for this part.”

“Sir--“

“Get out," Dean repeated in the tones of someone who wouldn’t be doing it a third time. Sam remembered the reaction to him dropping Carmen’s name a few minutes earlier. He wondered how much of the implied threat was Dean’s, and how much of it was the woman he was sleeping with.

The guard glanced at his compatriot, who shrugged and slunk out the door. “We’ll be outside.”

Sam waited until the door closed quietly leaving him alone in the room with his brother, then struggled upright. Dean was there a second later, grabbing his arm to keep him from falling when his legs didn’t seem quite cooperative enough to keep him on his feet. He held on until Sam sat on the edge of the bed, then stepped out of reach when Sam violently shrugged him off.

“Don’t touch me,” Sam hissed.

“Don’t do stupid things and I won’t,” Dean retorted. “You’re just a little shaky. It happens sometimes, afterwards. Give it a few minutes and you’ll be fine.”

“Fine?!” Sam used both hands and threw the only thing he could grab without getting up, a decorative oil lamp from the bedside table. It missed and hit the wall, breaking into a thousand ceramic pieces.

“Sir?” one of the guards called urgently through the door as the handle twisted. Dean shot Sam a withering look and held the door closed.

“I’m fine.”

“Uh, we heard--“

“I’m fine. Stay out,” Dean ordered. “If you hear me screaming, then you barge in.”

Silence was the only reply. Dean twisted the lock and stalked back over to the bed.

“Good job. You want to try yelling next? See how many people we can bring to the party?”

“You don’t even get to _talk_ to me after what you just did!” Sam snarled, but he was careful to keep his voice low. No matter how cheerfully he could have smashed Dean’s face into a wall, he would still rather not endure additional company at the moment.

“Better me than them,” Dean snapped, fists clenched. “You think this is _fun_ for me? That I _enjoyed_ that?”

“You sure as hell didn’t seem to have any trouble getting it up!”

Dean’s nostrils flared, but he kept his voice low and steady. “Sex is a tool. Like any other tool your life can depend on, you learn how to use it when you have to. You find the right woman, or man, for the job and you think you can afford to throw all that work away just because they don’t flip your switch? You think I’d have been in a position to save your ass if I wasn’t banging that bitch, Carmen?”

“Oh, is _that_ what you did? _Save_ me?”

“Yeah, _that’s what I did_.” Dean glared. “If you think Eliot’s idea of a good time is a little push and shove while you lay all nice and comfy on a mattress, then you’ve got a fucking screw loose! That girl last month didn’t steal anyone's credit card. She spilled a drink. On his shoe. You broke his fucking nose. If I’d left you to his devices you’d be castrated in the basement hanging from piano wire by now!”

Sam blinked. Dean ran a frustrated hand through his hair and paced the short length of the room. “I mean, what are you even doing here? You’re supposed to be at school, the other side of the country. Safe. Not skulking around in parking lots volunteering for cage fights!”

“I didn’t volunteer,” Sam muttered. And then, because maybe he _did_ owe Dean something, he offered a grudging explanation. “There was some stuff in dad’s journal. Not recent stuff,” he said, seeing the question on Dean’s face. “Old hunts. Here, in Shreveport. I thought... it seemed like a lot of werewolf activity for one place. It just felt wrong, so I came to look around.”

“And just happened to trip over one of the most exclusive and well-hidden clubs in the country, and _didn’t_ try to contact me or Bobby?”

“It’s not like you gave me your phone number when you threw me out!” Sam snapped, old anger rising to mix with the new. “You were pretty fucking clear that you didn’t want to hear from me again, and I sure as hell didn’t see Bobby jumping in to throw me a rope either. I didn’t want to call until I had _proof_. I was just watching the place.”

“Usually you don’t _watch_ from the parking lot! What the hell kind of surveillance is that?!”

Sam gave a half shrug, not feeling like justifying a spur of the moment decision. He’d tried getting evidence the safer ways first, and wasn’t prepared to ignore opportunities that presented themselves.

“What are you doing here?” he tried to change the subject,

“I’m still not done with what the hell _you’re_ doing here,” Dean growled. “What happened to college, law school -- remember those? Aren’t you in the middle of a semester or something?”

“It was dad,” Sam snapped. “You would have done the same.”

“You have no _idea _what I would’ve done.”__

“Really? What the hell are you doing now?” Sam challenged. Dean scowled.

“This is what I do. I hunt monsters. School is what you do, and I don’t see a lot of books around here, Sam!”

They glared at each other. After a moment Sam shifted uncomfortably and something like regret flickered over Dean’s face. He exhaled heavily.

“Fine. Whatever. You’re here. That actually solves one of my problems.”

“That problem better not have involved your dick,” Sam growled. “Just... tell me you weren’t in this all along.”

“Don’t be completely stupid,” Dean said scathingly.

“Then how did you find this place before me? You seem pretty cozy with them.”

Dean pulled one of the abandoned chairs over by the bed and straddled in backwards. “It’s called money and contacts, Sam. Mostly money. I’ve had a lucrative second career -- remember? I flashed enough cash and with some glowing recommendations from people who know better than to piss me off, had myself added to the members list.”

Sam looked around warily. “They’re no camera’s in here, right?”

“No, do I look suicidal to you? This place is big on privacy. They’re big on security too, but privacy is the first priority. They’re no cameras in any of the rooms.”

“Willing to bet your life on that?”

“I already am,” Dean smiled without humor. “But I'm not worried about it. I might be kind of new around here, but no one sneezes without Carmen’s permission, and she likes to talk after sex.”

Sam ignored that. “What is this place, what do they do here?”

“Exactly what you think they do, they fight illegal animals for money a couple of nights a month. Panthers, lions, bears, people. Anything they think members will enjoy.”

“Except during the full moon.”

“Right,” Dean agreed. “Then the game is a little more... unusual.” A howl reverberated through the walls and Sam shuddered.

“What are these things? They can’t be werewolves, the moon isn’t up yet! The one I was in the cage with, he had claws. He was barely human.” Sam’s looked down at where sharp teeth had sunk into his stomach and paled.

“Werewolves are messy monsters. And because they’re messy, hunters find them fast and kill them faster. Most don’t make it more than a month or two before someone tracks them down and puts them out of their misery.”

“I know. What does that have to do with anything?”

Dean shrugged. “The wolves hunter's stalk are babies, new to the curse. These guys are all ancient compared to that. Old Grey is -- I think nine? Maybe ten years old. None of them are less than five. It’s just one of those things that the longer you last, the stronger and more freakish you get. They don’t just look a little shady when the moon is up, Sam. These guys are practically full-on Hollywood. Even when the moon isn’t full they keep a little of it with them.”

Sam felt a cold stab of panic. “He bit me, Dean. The one in the cage. You saw--“

“Yeah," Dean cut him off. “I saw. But as far as I know they still can’t infect people in their human form. You’re fine. A little peroxide, maybe a rabies shot, and you’ll be good to go. One more scar for the scrapbook.”

Sam’s hands tightened into fists. “They did this to dad.”

“Yes. They turn people sometimes to give the old ones a challenge in the ring; something to rip apart that has their instincts. They don’t like to risk the real prizes because it takes so long to grow them. But sometimes, especially when there’s new blood around, accidents happen and they escape. They’re just as mindless and instinct driven as any other werewolf when that happens, and if they can evade the gamekeepers they show up on a hunter’s radar. Dad killed a couple of the throw-aways, but that last hunt he got the real prize. One of their precious cash-cows.” Dean spat. “They were so impressed they decided to let dad take his place. Grabbed him, infected him, and tossed him in a cage.”

“Then you lied to me about what he said when you saw him. Before you killed him.”

Dean sighed. “Not really. He--“ Another bell chimed over the speaker system. No voice followed it but Dean swore softly.

“Sir?” One of the guards knocked on the door.

“Give me a minute!” Dean yelled. He lowered his voice again. “We’re out of time, Sam. They’ll come for you in a moment and I need you to trust me and do what I say.”

“Trust you.”

“Yeah, _trust me_.” They locked eyes. Anger and determination was in every line of his brother’s face and Sam found himself nodding slowly. If Dean was lying, and this was all some elaborate web of... _whatever_ , then Sam would hardly be in a worse position than he was now.

“What’s the plan? How do we get out of here?”

Dean’s smile was all edges. “We’re not getting out, we’re getting even. I could step on the roaches here any time I want, but you’ve arrived just at the right time to be very helpful in my plans.”

“I’m not in shape to be helpful for anything,” Sam said warily. “Help me get out of here and--“

Dean shook his head impatiently. “This place’s full of scum, but they’re bottom feeding piranha, nasty in groups, but harmless without direction. They don’t have the balls to do anything by themselves. I want the one behind it, the organizer who dreamed this shit fest up. He doesn’t come for the casual nights, and I’ve been wading through crap for four months now waiting for the right time. I’m not going to jeopardize it because you’ve got cold feet. You invited yourself to the party.”

Sam’s frowned. “You’re sure he’s coming tonight?”

“He doesn’t have a schedule, only Carmen knows when he’s coming and she keeps her mouth shut about it. But security’s been beefed up and she’s walking on eggshells. I think he’ll be here. That means we wait.”

“I can’t wait, Dean,” Sam hissed. “They’re going to throw me to the werewolves as soon as the moon is up.”

“Exactly. I need a distraction, and I think you’ll do nicely. He’s got personal guards, better than what's tramping around in the corridors here. I could still do him,” Dean added without a trace of modesty, “or get him somewhere else, but we need to take out the wolves too. I don’t want to risk someone feeling all entrepreneurial and splitting them up. This all has to go down at the same time, and the time is now.”

“How?” Sam asked tightly.

Dean tugged a keycard from his back pocket and waved it under Sam’s nose. “Yours aren’t the only pants I’m good at getting in to. When they put you in the ring some of the wolves will be in cages inside. They’ll take off your cuffs and give you some kind of weapon, then let one of the wolves out. They don’t think in terms of cleaning up their kills, but they definitely aren’t stupid. It will stay out of reach while it sizes you up. The man I want, if he’s coming he’s going to want to see the whole show. He’ll be in the audience. I need you to watch me the best you can. When I stand up, that’s the signal to act. Try and keep your back near the arena entrance. You can reach the swipe pad through the bars. Just stick your hand through and open it up. Open the other cages too, if you can. That should give everyone a good thrill, enough of one that I can finish my job.”

“You want me to set them free?”

“Into the crowd,” Dean affirmed. “Can you think of a better distraction? Or a group more deserving? We’ll clean up the problem afterwards; we just need the room to work. Total chaos should be about the right speed.”

Sam swallowed, a hundred other questions flying through his mind. The most prominent of which involved just what the hell Dean was planning to do if the werewolf Sam was toying with decided to jump him and end the game early.

“Are you with me, Sam?”

“Have I got a choice?”

“Life is full of choices. I need you to be on board with this.”

“Gimme the card.”

Dean reached out to help pull him to his feet. Sam managed not to flinch at the touch. His legs seemed steadier and he stood patiently while Dean slid the card into the back pocket of his jeans and tugged his shirt down.

“They shouldn’t notice that,” Dean said after looking Sam over critically. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Dean gave him a measuring look, he seemed like he wanted to say something. Someone knocked on the door.

“It’s time, Sir.”

“Yeah, I’m coming,” Dean called, still watching Sam. He lowered his voice. “When they come in, try and look -- I don’t know, traumatized or something.”

“That should be easy,” Sam muttered as Dean walked to the door and unlocked it. He left without a backwards glance.

  
  
**Chapter Twenty Two**

Ten minutes later found Sam standing barefoot and armed with a baseball bat in an arena surrounded by werewolves. Or humans who would soon be werewolves, he wasn’t sure where the line was. It was one of those defining moments when you are absolutely sure your life has taken a wrong turn, but just aren’t sure where.

It seemed to be the night for it.

About two stories above where he stood a two tiered deck covered with draped tables and fine china hosted about a hundred onlookers. The chatty tones of casual conversation carried easily to the arena floor.

Sam hoped his brother was packing a lot of bullets.

Behind him was the tall iron gate he had been shoved through. The guards couldn’t close it fast enough behind him, but Sam was pretty sure Dean was right about being able to reach the swipe pad through the bars. Barely. It was a poor design, and Sam intended to make them pay for the mistake. If he lived long enough. Across from him and to both sides, his opponents paced their own confining cages. Three steps one way, three steps another. The only break in the conversational flow was when one of them let out a hair-raising howl. No human throat could make that sound and Sam thought uneasily of the bite again. Hoped Dean knew what he was talking about. Directly in front of him was Old Grey, the werewolf Sam had briefly shared a cage with. He felt a stab of pity for the man, or what was left of one. If he could kill him tonight, he would.

He didn’t have to ask what the big hold-up was. The crowd above him was continuously checking their watches and Sam could see the restless anticipation in the caged beasts. The moon still hovered below the horizon. What he couldn’t see was Dean, somewhere in the crowd. Sam hoped he could find him before whatever was about to happen, happened. It would be a lot easier to see the cue if he knew where the hell to look.

When it happened, it was almost too fast to believe. Sam had just located Dean on the lower deck, mostly because Carmen, in her scarlet dress, was practically sitting on him, when a gong rang through the arena and the crowd fell silent. In the space of three heartbeats the men pacing in their cages shifted from mostly human -- to not at all.

A low shuddering groan filled the arena. One fell to the ground, seizing, quickly followed by the other two. Thick, coarse black hair sprouted out all over their bodies and their faces elongated until they appeared to have muzzles. Sam got a good look at the bright golden eyes of the one closest to him before it snarled, showing off a full set of sharp looking teeth. _All the better to eat you with, my dear_. Sam clutched the bat tighter and edged away, closer to the one wolf he was familiar with. Not that it was any comfort there either. Old Grey’s nails had been long and sharp before, but now his fingers were thicker, stronger looking, and each one ended in a wicked hooked claw.

An announcer was saying something upstairs, but Sam couldn’t make it out through the echoes down in the arena. The werewolves weren’t impatiently pacing anymore. They snarled and growled, crouched spring loaded in their cramped cages. This wasn’t their first rodeo, and Sam wondered with a sick feeling just how many people had died in this place.

Sam half-turned to check the gate, to reassure himself that there were only two guards there, and both stood as far away from the arena as possible. In that instant a soft click echoed in the ring and the only thing louder than the challenging scream of the released monster was the approving roar of the crowd above.

And it was fast. Sam thought he would have time to size up his opponent once the cage opened, that the wolf would want to shake itself out and size _him_ up. Instead it was only instinct that brought the bat swinging up in time to repel the first attack. The impact staggered Sam and he barely kept his feet.

At least the wolf was showing some caution as it shook itself off and slowly circled to the left.

Sam threw one wild glance up. There was some commotion in the back of the room, but Dean was still sitting calmly, watching the show. Sam set his lips in a tight smile and mirrored the wolf across the room. The wolves wanted death; he'd do his best to oblige.

His entire world narrowed down to the monster studying his every move. It feinted in twice more in quick succession. Sam got a good crack on its arm with one blow on the first strike and barely managed not to be gutted by a taloned swipe the second time.

Another dodge, this one even closer. The skin of his arm split under the tips of claws so sharp it didn't even hurt at first. Escaping that blow put his back to the wall, a place he really didn't want to be. Sam glanced up again. Dean set his drink down on the table and stood.

Too late, the wolf was on him. Sam cracked his head on the stone wall as what felt like three hundred pounds of muscle drove into him. The fall brought them within reach of one of the other kennels. Claws raked out from the bars, trying to get a grip on him. Sam flinched away and the wolf pinning him in the dirt snarled, distracted. Sam grabbed it around the waist and tried to wrestle it over, seeking leverage to escape. That brought the werewolf's mouth within reach of his skin and Sam screamed as a full set of razor sharp teeth sank into his shoulder.

And then paused there, as if uncertain. Sam felt his own blood welling up in the things mouth, but dared not even breathe for fear of breaking whatever spell had given him momentary respite. The bat had rolled a good ten feet away. When he slowly turned the other way, one wild golden eye met his. Wild, but... something was there, something more than the monster. Maybe.

"Old Grey?" Sam whispered. The teeth tightened, and then relaxed. The wolf straightened up to its knees with a fluid grace unmatched by any predator Sam had ever seen. It looked at Sam with what he would have called uncertainty in a human. Deciding if Sam was prey or not. Sam chose not to wait for the verdict and pulled both his legs up, giving a two-footed kick as hard as he could. Old Grey went sailing out to land sprawled across the ring. Sam rolled to his knees and scrambled away. Up top the entire audience was on their feet. He couldn't see Dean any more, but Dean had said standing was the signal, and Sam wasn't hanging around any longer than he had to.

He backed into the wall again, but this time by the gate. Old Grey was glaring balefully at him, occasionally shaking his head like he couldn't quite focus. The wolf snatched up Sam's bat and snapped it effortlessly with a growl. Sam had nothing but sympathy for the man, but hoped he'd broken the damn things’ jaw. His whole arm was tingling with pain and hot blood soaked the fabric of his shirt. He wouldn't survive another rush, was distantly surprised he'd survived the last.

The announcer’s voice was an indistinct buzz up above, and then two more soft clicks dropped the bottom out of Sam's stomach. Old Grey turned to snarl at one of the newly released inmates and Sam took the opportunity to rip the card from his pocket and reach desperately through the bars for the swipe pad.

"Hey!" one of the guards yelled, barely audible over the fierce noise of the audience. "Hey, stop that!" Sam ignored the directive, then a shot rang out. It missed his hand and struck the stone wall, but shards of flying stone sliced into Sam's arm and the card slipped from his outstretched fingers.

He screamed in frustration and turned to face the ring again. Old Grey was almost close enough to touch, but oddly it was his back Sam found himself staring at as the werewolf faced off against the other two. Protecting him? Protecting food? Sam didn't know. It felt odd and a sense of déjà vu ripped through him. The roar of the crowd, rippling dark fur, a broken bat and burning agony under a shirt soaked with blood. He'd seen this before, seen exactly this. Sam closed his eyes and thought furiously, praying like he'd never prayed before that this was part of his gift and not the result of late night pizza.

What else, what else -- fur, blood, the noise... and numbers. The guard was yelling something in his radio and the snarling of the wolves reverberated in his bones, but Sam ignored all that. He stretched out as far as he could, ignoring the wrenching pain the movement cost and touched the keypad. Another shot rang out and stone chips showered his arm. He ignored it and punched in the code, just like he'd seen in his... dream. For an instant nothing happened and Sam resigned himself to a bloody death. Dean’s too, since there was only one place Sam could have gotten the card. Another shot echoed in the room, but this one came from the desks above the arena. The entire audience seemed to catch its breath, and then more shots and the screaming started.

Sam almost missed the click of the gate he was pressed against as it opened. One of the guards was still staring at Sam, horrified. The other had swiped his own pass card for another gate recessed in the stone wall a good twenty feet from the arena entrance and vanished. Sam knew that gate, he remembered when he’d passed it earlier. And now it was standing wide open.

The smile that crossed his face was as cold as any he'd ever seen Dean wear. Sam shoved the gate wide, ignoring the panicking guard, and stepped out of the way. He wasn't disappointed. Three hulking fur-covered bodies barreled past him. The guard emptied his gun on the wolves, but they didn't even break stride. The lead wolf grabbed the guard by the throat and vanished with him around the corner. The other two threw themselves into the recessed doorway left open by the other guard’s passage.

The doorway that led to the upper decks.

Above, the screaming reached new heights.

  
  
**Chapter Twenty Three**

Sam, unarmed, waited for a few minutes in the relative safety of the arena entrance while the wolves made sure everyone had much more pressing things to do than be interested in what he was doing. The wolf that dragged the guard away had reappeared a moment later, but barely gave Sam a look before following it's fellows up the stairs.

A few people in evening dress staggered terrified down the stairs. Sam wanted to hurt them, but he was hurt enough himself without begging for trouble. In the acoustics of the arena, the screaming was deafening. More worrying was the occasional report of automatic gunfire. Nothing the guards Sam had seen had carried anything that should have made that noise, so he had to assume it was the bodyguards Dean had been worried about. He didn't know how many exits there were, but it sounded like the crowd was starting to disperse so Sam made his way up the stairs and into a scene of absolute carnage. Bodies were tossed everywhere and blood was splashed over tablecloths and on the walls. There were still people in shock and panic, trying to find ways out. None of them gave Sam a second look. He felt a brief surge of satisfaction to see Eliot lying among the dead, throat torn out and chest ripped open.

Sam found a dead guard lying on an overturned table, but his gun had either been taken or lost in the chaos. He swore and broke a leg off the table. Better a club than no weapon at all. He missed his bat. Gunshots were still being exchanged on and off from the other side of the deck, where he had last seen Dean. There were more people there, a tight crowd struggling and screaming. Sam tried to keep his bare feet out of the broken glass as he picked his way across the space.

When he finally laid eye on his brother Dean was ducked behind a table, trading shots with two other men dressed in security uniforms taking cover behind a bar. As Sam watched one of their shots went wild and hit a man in a tuxedo who had been milling past. In the next instant one of Dean's shots connected and a shooter slumped down. Another exchange. Sam pushed past people who got in his way, he could hear the howls and snarls of the wolves, but couldn't see any of them from his vantage. For an area arranged for viewing, there was a surprising amount of cover. Decorative screens displaced in the panic, overturned furniture, bars, and the shifting panic of the crowd.

Blood was heavy in the air, but now there was a certain undercurrent of smoke. Sam would know the smell anywhere, it was engraved on his heart. Something was burning. His movement took on a new urgency just as Dean fell back behind his table clutching his right arm, but almost as fast as Sam followed the action his brother switched gun hands and straightened up again. He felt a grim sort of pride in his family.

Dean finally took out his opponent and stood up. His white shirt was almost as bloody as Sam's now and he ripped a napkin in half with his teeth, efficiently binding it over the wound. Dean had his back to Sam, focused on his injury. Sam tried shouting, but it was useless over the noise of the crowd. Then, to Sam's horror, something sent the door next to Dean flying off its hinges. It slammed into Dean, knocking him off his feet as one of the wolves threw itself into the room, casually disemboweling a screaming woman before its golden eyes zeroed in on Dean, momentarily helpless on the floor.

"No!" Sam screamed, trying to get its attention, but the noise was swallowed by the general din. He was close now, almost close enough... Dean was scrambling to shove the door off and get his gun, but too slow. He wouldn't make it in time. A victim of his own catastrophic plotting. Fortunately, he had a brother. Sam reached the tableau and swung the table leg as hard as he could at the back of the monster’s head.

It went down like a stunned ox.

He kept swinging, until the skull was reduced to a pulpy mush and his clothes were spattered with bone shards and gore.

"Sam! Sam, I think it's dead!" Dean's hand on his arm stopped the next blow. Sam nodded and let the makeshift club fall to his side, more exhausted than he could ever remember being in his life. Dean gave him an assessing look, mouth tightening as his eyes caught on Sam's wounded shoulder. He didn't comment on it. "Wait here."

Sam watched as Dean looted the bodies of the dead guards he'd been fighting. He looked down and met Carmen's wide staring eyes. A bullet hole decorated the perfect center of her lovely forehead.

"Your work?" he asked Dean when his brother when he returned and shoved a gun into Sam's hand.

"She never saw it coming," Dean said with savage satisfaction. "Cleaner than she deserved."

Sam remembered the dispassion with which she'd agreed to his rape, torture and death. He didn't have any problems with Dean's sense of justice.

"We have to get out of here. The place is on fire."

"Where?" Dean looked around as if expected to see flames racing up the walls.

"I don't know, but it is. I can smell it."

"Okay, stay close."

 

~~~~~~~

 

The trip back out was a nightmare of panicked people, smoke, and monsters. Dean dealt with anything that got in their way with an economical violence Sam could only admire in their present straits. He wondered if that was something that had been trained into his brother, or if it was just _Dean_.

They both ignored the screaming and pleas for help. Dean had killed who he wanted dead, but no one was innocent in this place and they weren’t risking their lives to save any of them.

With one exception. The first thing Dean did once they made it back to the ground floor was drag Sam back around near the arena entrance.

“That’s not the way out, Dean!”

“How would you know? This place is a maze inside.”

“I know because they dragged me there once and I didn’t have such a great time that I want to go back! Let’s just get out of here.”

“One thing I’ve gotta do.” Dean kept moving with single-minded determination, forcing Sam to follow grudgingly in his wake. There weren’t as many people in that part and they could move faster. When they reached the gate Dean passed it and kept going around the corridor. Another, smaller, iron gate was set into the stone and desperate arms reached out, begging. The smoky stench was so strong now that the screaming coming from inside was broken up by coughing. Dean swiped a card he’d fished off a guard against the lock and the door flew open. About a dozen people poured out of the room. They threw desperate thanks at Dean and ran past, seeking clean air and the safety of an exit.

“Who were they?” Sam demanded, pretty sure he already knew.

“Entertainment,” Dean said shortly. “No one else was going to let them out and this place is likely to burn to the ground. You know how long it will take the fire department to even get a call on this hell hole? No one who’s been here would dare.”

They followed the path the prisoners had taken, moving steadily out of the complex.

The other problem was the werewolves. Bodies were strewn like broken marionettes down every corridor they saw. They killed two more, one they tripped over feeding on the corpse of a waiter and the other they found when Dean led them back down to the caging area where Sam had regained consciousness. Seven cages, six were empty. Dean lined up his shot and put the remaining wolf down with one bullet, and followed up with enough lead that its head was almost obliterated. They might have amazing healing powers, but if they could come back from that then nothing Sam or Dean could do at that moment would get the job done. But Dean didn’t seem concerned, and he knew a hell of a lot more about them than Sam did.

“If there were only six to start with, and we killed three, then there’re still three on the loose,” Sam said grimly, staring at the furry corpse.

“Security took out one on the back stairs.”

“Two then.”

“Yeah, let’s go see what trouble we can get into outside.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

Sam breathed a deep sigh of relief to be back outdoors. About a third of the cars were gone from the parking lot. Sam wondered how many of the others’ would never be claimed. A furry hulk lay sprawled out amidst a few corpses just outside the door.

“One,” Sam said. Dean didn’t seem to approve of the thoroughness of the kill and added a few more of his own bullets while Sam kept an eye on the surroundings.”

“Yeah. Let’s go,” he said when he was done.

“You don’t want to look for the last one?”

“No. I’m beat, we’re both fucked up, there’s still armed lunatics running around this place. It’s probably already fled anyways. They’re not stupid, it’s not going to stay in a burning building and it’s too quiet out here for it to be around.”

It was true, there was some shouting and hysterical crying going on, but the screaming had stopped. Other than slamming car doors the loudest sound now was the fire that had engulfed the north end of the building.

“If you’re sure,” Sam said finally.

“I am. I can hunt it down later. Or someone can, tonight if we ran down a werewolf in a forest we’d just be kibble.” Dean looked around, decision made and ready to move on. “Which car should we steal?”

  
  
**Chapter Twenty Four**

They ended up with a vintage Porsche that seemed to please Dean. He muttered something about James Dean and ran his hand along the fender like he was feeling it up. Sam didn’t care what car they took as long as it started. He kept an eye out for guards while his brother worked under the steering column, then slumped into the passenger seat when the car rumbled to life. They took it as far as Sam’s motel to pick up his scant belongings and make sure no one was about to bleed to death, then ditched it in a mall parking lot and walked three blocks to the storage unit where Dean had left the Impala secured.

“How did you get to the ranch,” Sam asked while Dean assured his baby that she would always be his favorite.

“Carmen. I’ve been staying at her place, I just rode in with her.”

“How long were you together?”

Dean shrugged. “A few months, on and off. She was looking for a good time and I know how to deliver.”

Sam grimaced and decided that was enough question and answer for now.

They took turns driving south. Dean didn’t ask if Sam wanted to be dropped off at an airport, and Sam was grateful. It would have sucked to go through all of that and still end the night trying to beat Dean to death in the car.

He needed to do a lot of thinking, about visions and premonitions. What he wanted for the future, and what he wanted to do about the past. But only if he was going to live through another twenty-four hours, which became a fairly shaky prospect the instant the werewolf’s teeth slid home in his shoulder. Dean would put a bullet in him is he turned, and if Dean didn’t -- Sam would do the job himself at the first opportunity.

A few hours before dawn, Dean pulled in to the same water front home he had first taken Sam to. Somewhere in the oaks that rose over the house an owl hooted. Sam climbed out of the Impala slowly. Without adrenaline in his system and after hours in the car every ache and pain was magnified tenfold. He suppressed a groan as he forced himself to straighten up.

“You need a hand?” Dean had Sam’s duffle bag over his good shoulder.

“No, I can manage.”

Dean accepted that, unlocked the front door and flipped on the lights. Sam was hit by a wave of exhaustion as he stepped inside.

“Take off your shirt. And your pants.”

Sam stiffened. “I think you’ve seen enough of me tonight.”

“And I think you’ve got fresh blood on your shirt and spent fifteen minute in a cage match with werewolves. So strip, or I can strip you. Your choice.”

Their eyes locked. Sam looked away first. He knew Dean knew about the bite, that wasn’t the problem. “I can take care of my own wounds.”

“Sam, I know I’m the last person you want touching you right now,” and something in his expression made Sam suspect he really did, “but I need to see. You might need stitches, you might need a doctor. Just let me look, then we can clean up and crash. Deal with the rest of the crap in the morning.”

Sam’s fingers moved woodenly to pull up his shirt. Dean found something else to do than to watch, and had a hot mug of tea to shove in Sam’s hands by the time his brother was down to his boxers.

He had a box of first aid supplies and inspected and cleaned out each cut and puncture with an impersonal touch that Sam found tolerable. Most of the wounds were bruises or superficial. Except the bite on his shoulder. That was deep, but surprisingly not as painful as some of the other injuries.

“Do you think it’s like Rabies?” Sam asked distantly, watching as Dean poked at the wound, trying to decide the best way to clean it out.

“What’s like Rabies?”

“Lycanthropy. They say when you get bit by something with Rabies the area goes numb. Doesn’t hurt at all.”

Dean looked up sharply but Sam was staring into his untouched tea. “I know what a werewolf bite means, Dean.”

“It doesn’t mean shit, Sam.”

“Really? This isn’t the reason you dragged me back to your nice, isolated house instead of getting rid of me as fast as humanly possible again? So you can clean up the mess in privacy?”

Dean slammed the first aid box closed. “I’m taking a shower. I think there’s some ramen in the pantry. Try to be here when I get out.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

There was ramen in the pantry, and Sam made four packages of it. He added a handful of frozen vegetables from the freezer and a sliced chicken breast he thawed out in the microwave.

He had the bowls steaming on the table when Dean padded back into the room. He was shirtless, and Sam could see butterfly bandages thickly smeared with ointment holding shut the bullet score on his bicep. It looked like it would be a scar well at home in a collection of them. He knew Dean lived a hard life, but he hadn’t seen the evidence quite so starkly before.

“Do you need stitches for that?”

“This?” Dean craned his neck to examine the wound. “Nah. Stings like a bitch, but it’ll close up fine. You still doing okay?”

“Eat your soup.”

They ate in silence. Then Sam took his own shower, ignoring the sting of hot water and soap in his wounds. Some of them would have to be flushed out again, but it was worth it to feel clean. The first aid kit was sitting on the edge of the bed when Sam walked out of the bathroom wearing only a towel. He was grateful for the privacy while he tended to the wounds and got dressed. When he walked out, Dean was slumped down on the couch watching television with the sound off.

“I called Bobby. He’s royally pissed,” Dean greeted him.

“He’s not my dad,” Sam retorted.

“Oh, I didn’t say he was pissed at you. The pissiness is pretty evenly spread out. Luckily for us, he’s too busy to come visit for awhile. He was happy about the werewolves though.”

“Did you tell him one got away?”

Dean shrugged. “He likes surprises. I’ll save that one for his next visit. Go to bed.”

There was only one bed and Sam wasn’t in a sharing mood. “I thought I’d take the couch.”

Dean didn’t look at him. “You’re the guest, I’ve got the couch.” The couch that was at least two feet too short for him.

“We could share the bed,” Sam finally said reluctantly. There was always the floor, he just wasn’t sure he’d be able to get up in the morning if he tried to sleep on it. Not with the way his body’d been abused.

“I like this couch,” Dean insisted, waving him off. “I’ve got great memories of this couch. If everyone is careful about their elbows you’d be surprised how much fun you can have on this couch. Don’t worry about me.”

Sam felt a smile tug at the corners of his lips despite himself and went to get some sleep.

But it was elusive, and when he did finally succumb, his dreams were full of crackling fire and the distant baying of wolves.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Sam woke up when the light outside the bedroom window still had the odd, hazy shading of early morning. He washed his face and brushed his teeth, checked his bandages and downed a handful of aspirin. When he walked into the living room Dean wasn’t there, only a pile of blankets on the end of the couch and a half eaten bowl of cereal on the table. Sam frowned, but then caught sight of him through the glass out sitting on the porch.

Sam poured his own cereal and went out to join him. Dean had a bag of hamburger buns open on the table and was tearing off little pieces and tossing them in the water. Dozens of fish bobbed just under the surface in a mad rush to gobble down the treats.

“You should take the bed for a few hours.”

“I must look as bad as I feel.”

“Yesterday was rough,” Sam said.

“Yeah.”

There was an easy silence between them for a few minutes while Sam ate.

“What did dad really tell you when you went to meet him?”

Dean didn’t seem surprised by the question. “Not much more than I told you in the first place. He was out of his head, he was raving. But he told me enough to put my feet on the trail. It was an exclusive group, but if you know what you’re looking for, and have resources, it’s only a matter of time until you find it.”

“Why didn’t you just tell me!”

Dean tossed another piece of bread, setting off another feeding frenzy. “When we met you were trying to kill me. And once we cleared the air -- you just didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would sit back and let me handle business. I didn’t want to tell you if I couldn’t trust you to have my back.”

“The troll hunt.”

Dean shrugged.

“I didn’t screw that up, Dean,” Sam insisted tightly.

“No, you did good.”

“Then why chase me off like that!”

“Because you had skills, but you also had a life. You have a freaking Ivy League scholarship, Sam! You’ve got plans, ambitions. And dad --Jesus. As much as he and I fought on some issues, I respected the man and he had both feet on the ground, you know? He didn’t want you to have this life, do this job. You think he left you with Pastor Jim all those years so you could throw everything away chasing the same things we do? He only took you along because he didn’t trust anyone else to raise you up right.”

“He sure pitched enough of a fit when I _left_ for someone who didn’t want me on the road,” Sam snapped.

“Like I pitched a fit when you wanted to stay?” It took a moment before Sam’s eyes widened with realization.

“He didn’t want you coming back,” Dean continued. “Ever.”

“You can’t know that, unless you lied about knowing I existed too.”

“I _can_ know that, because he told me so in the letter. He wanted me to know about you so I could check in on you and make sure you were safe.”

Sam was quiet for a few minutes. “Dad was an asshole. Why didn’t he just open his mouth and talk to me.”

“Because you were an eighteen year old brat and if dad said the sky was blue you’d have sworn it was orange rather than agree? If he’d hugged you and told you that he couldn’t be prouder, what would you’ve done? Because if you tell me ‘gotten on a bus and shipped off to school’ I’ll call you a liar.”

Sam didn’t deny it. There were a lot of things about that period in his life he wasn’t proud of. “Maybe not right off, but I would’ve gone eventually.”

“Eventually is a cut throat and a wasted life,” Dean said bluntly.

Sam studied him. There was something else, something hidden in and around what Dean was telling him. “What else was in the letter?”

“You don’t think that’s enough?” Dean raised an eyebrow. “It wasn’t much longer than yours. Have a nice life, don’t drink too much. Oh yeah -- you have a brother. Keep an eye on him too and try not to fuck up his life with your filthy hunter germs.”

“Dad didn’t say that.”

Dean shrugged and tossed another piece of bread. “Maybe not in so many words.”

“I’m not a little kid, Dean. I get to make my own decisions. And you, and sure as hell _dad_ , don’t get to make them for me.”

“I did make my own decision. I didn’t want you tangled up with the fucking wolves!”

“And look how well that turned out,” Sam snapped.

“Yeah. Look,” Dean said humorlessly with a sidelong glance at Sam’s shoulder.

Sam’s eyes narrowed. “It was my decision.”

“It was my hunt, and you weren’t invited.”

“It was _our_ dad! You don’t get to decide who gets to come along or not!”

Dean started to snap back, but suddenly grinned. “Do you think this is what we missed by not growing up together?”

Sam stared, and then felt the same tug of humor. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “It would’ve been more fun than what it was really like.”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure I’d have liked sharing control over the radio with a third person.”

“What control?” Sam snorted. “Dad controlled the radio, you didn’t get a damn say.”

“Probably one of the reasons I left,” Dean agreed, throwing another small piece into the water. The fish writhed ecstatically, vying to be the first to get a bite. Sam watched them for a little while before broaching the most painful subject he wanted to discuss.

“We have to talk about tonight, Dean.”

Dean’s relaxed air vanished like a popped bubble.

“Whatever happens tonight, happens. We don’t have to talk about it.”

“So... just hang out and watch television, and if I decide to try the other white meat put a bullet in my head?” Sam asked, voice heavy with sarcasm.

“Pretty much.”

Sam thought about that for a minute.

“Okay. Pass me the bread.”

 

~~~~~~~

 

They sat together later that night. The television was flickering in the glass behind them, but Sam wanted to be outside, where he could see the sky. The land was too flat and the trees too thick to have any chance of seeing the horizon, but it felt right.

The evening breeze was cool, and carried the scents of night blooming jasmine and late summer.

There were worse ways to die.

Dean’s gun lay between them on the table. His brother kept checking his watch, restless. Not the gold one from the arena, but a more utilitarian black. Sam hadn’t bothered wearing one. He figured if it was going to happen, it would happen. Knowing the exact minute wouldn’t change anything.

Dean checked his watch again. “Feeling wolfy?”

“No.”

“No sudden urge to howl at the moon? Eat a yuppie?”

“No, is it time?”

“Nope. Time was fifteen minutes ago. Congratulations, you’re human.”

Sam fought the wave of relief. “We should wait, maybe it’s not moonrise. Maybe I have to be in the light, or able to see it, or--“

“Shut up, Sam. If you want to hang out here and commune with nature that’s one thing. But you’re not a werewolf. You think I spent all that time with those creeps and can’t tell to the _second_ when to expect the claws to come out? Give me a break.”

That was true.

“So, I’m really--“

“Human.”

“But it bit me.” Sam was baffled

Dean shrugged. “Snakes can dry bite, maybe it’s like that.”

“Snakes dry bite by not injecting venom, Dean. I don’t think a shapeshifting curse is the same thing.”

“Well, that’s my best guess. I’m happy to listen to yours, but can we do it inside? The news is coming on and I want to see if there’s any mention of that little shindig up north. Hunters will keep an eye on the site to make sure no one rebuilds, but how thoroughly things get covered up helps you know who’s playing on the other team.”

There was no mention of the ranch or the fire. Not on the evening news, not in the newspaper, not even on the internet when Dean dragged out the laptop to look. Quite a few short obituaries, but no causes of death were given. It was as if the ranch had never existed.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Two days later Dean drove Sam to the airport. It hadn’t been an easy decision, but his life was still in Palo Alto. He wasn’t sure what he was going to do after graduation, but he was sure about the graduation itself. He had less than a year to go to get his degree. With the mystery of his dad’s death resolved and his relationship with Dean on more stable footing, he could do anything for eight months.

What happened after that could be decided later.

Dean didn’t seem sorry to see him go, but he didn’t seem happy either. That was enough of an improvement to have Sam in good spirits when the Impala pulled up to the terminal.

“So, this is really your phone number?” He held up the little scrap of paper Dean had actually given him without prompting. “It’s not some pizza joint or a strip club, right?”

“Well, it’s _a_ phone number. You can reach me at it. But you’ve got Bobby’s too?”

“Yeah. And a whole list on the inside cover of dad’s journal. Without names, of course. Otherwise it might be useful, and we don’t do that.”

“You’re going to have to let me take a look at that journal when I hit town. It sounds like it’s full of all kinds of interesting things.”

“I can mail it to you if -- hit town? You’re coming to California?”

“It’s this job I have.” He smiled. “I tend to get around. If you don’t mind having me, I was thinking about swinging by. Maybe later once the snow starts. Bobby always wants me to come see him at Christmas,” he added darkly. “The one time of the year South Dakota is guaranteed to be a frozen wasteland and he gets all mushy and nostalgic. I’ve been looking for an excuse to hit the winter beaches for _years_. Now hurry up, you don’t want to miss your flight.”

  
  
**Chapter Twenty Five**

It was December twenty-third and Sam was only paying attention to one thing. Unfortunately that thing was Organic Chemistry, so when the doorbell rang he ignored it.

And when it rang again, and again, and again.

The fifth time it interrupted his study of tetrachloride, Sam shoved himself off the bed and stalked to the door. His professors hadn’t been thrilled with his extended mid-semester hiatus and he had to work extra hard to stay in their good graces. Winter finals had been rough, and he was determined to make a better showing for his last semester as an undergrad. Unfortunately, the Botany majors next door were discovering pot. Which was fine, except it coincided with their discovery that Sam kept a barrel of pretzels on his kitchen counter. As far as the botanists were concerned this made them all new best friends. From Sam’s perspective it made them likely to have a death threat slipped under their door one night.

He didn’t bother with the peephole, just drew a deep breath and swung the door open, prepared to let Lewis have it for the third time that week -- then froze. It wasn’t the delinquent section of the Botany department on his doorstep.

It was Dean.

Dean who looked tanned, and fit and grinned when he caught the flabbergasted look on Sam’s face. “Catching flies, Sammy?”

Sam hugged him. It was an impulsive gesture, and one he probably should have thought out before he did it. He doubted in hindsight that Dean had been hugged a lot in his life, and being grabbed without warning didn’t make any hunter happy. But before could pull back and stammer an apology, Dean relaxed into the embrace and hugged back. His warmth soaked through Sam’s worn-out sweatshirt and Sam let go only reluctantly.

He hadn’t realized how much he missed Dean. Was surprised at how genuinely happy he was to see him again.

“Why didn’t you call?” he asked as he ushered Dean inside. “I don’t even think I’ve got anything in the place to eat except leftovers and snack food. Well, what snacks I’ve got left anyways.”

“Rats?”

“Botany students next door.”

“Ah. Puffing the magic dragon. I wondered what apartment that was coming from.”

Sam groaned.

“Don’t worry about food,” Dean told him. “Just find your shoes and a coat and I’ll take you out. There’s got to be some good steak places in this town.”

“I’m sure we can find one,” Sam grinned. “But sit down for a moment first. How long have you been driving?”

“Not that long. I had some business in the area to take care of.”

“You don’t need help or anything, right?” If Dean asked, Sam would do whatever he could. But he really preferred to be left out of Dean’s kind of “business.” Whatever ghost had haunted him after his first trip to Louisiana, his second trip had cured him. He had less interest in hunting than he did in the chemistry that was likely to wreck his grade point average. That wasn’t his road, and he was at peace with the decision.

“If I needed help, you wouldn’t be the one I called,” Dean said, meeting his eyes. “I was serious about what I said before. You don’t belong out there.”

“You’re right.”

Dean looked a little surprised at Sam’s easy agreement.

“Uh, good. I guess.”

Sam grinned at him. “I’m not a hunter, Dean. I don’t want to be. If you need me, I’ll do what I can. But I’m in the right place here, you know?”

“Funny you should mention that.”

“Mention what?”

“The place.” Dean looked around. “It’s nice and all, but you could probably use a bit more room. Maybe a table to study on that you don’t have to shove books under to level, a lamp that’s not fixed with duct tape. You know, some improvements.”

Sam frowned, feeling a little defensiveness creep up. “What’re you talking about? You did see the rat traps we stayed in together, right? I mean, I don’t think _mottled_ is actually a carpet color.”

“Yeah, but that was traveling, and this is living. I just think it could be a little nicer.”

“I don’t have a lot of money. I can pay the rent, I can pay the utilities, and the door has a steel core. That’s everything I need.”

“A steel core? On an interior apartment door?”

Sam shrugged. “It used to be a bad neighborhood before the university expanded.”

“Hmmmm.”

“What are you here for, Dean?” Sam’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “You didn’t really drop by to criticize my apartment and buy me dinner, did you?”

“I’ve been thinking about making some changes in my life.”

“Trying redheads?”

“No, though that’s not a bad idea. There’s a video on YouTube I need to show you later.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Sam said dryly. “What were you saying about changes?”

“You know how I said I didn’t have a place of my own, just drifted around?”

“Yeah.”

“I bought a townhouse.”

“You _what_?” Sam laughed.

“A townhouse. You know, couple of bedrooms, couple of bathrooms. Kitchen, living room, dining room, study.”

“That’s a lot of rooms for a townhouse, sounds nice.”

“It is nice. Wanna move in?”

Sam blinked. “To your townhouse?”

“No, to my car,” Dean said irritably. “Yes, to my townhouse.”

“Uh, that’s really nice and all, Dean. But I’m kind of tied up here. Maybe I can visit over Spring Break?”

“It’s gonna take you that long to clear enough of your schedule to walk three miles?” Dean didn’t sound impressed.

“Three miles to where?”

“My townhouse,” Dean repeated patiently. “It’s on the other side of campus. You know, the side without the steel-cored doors. Well, I have one, but I think the neighbors feel pretty safe with flimsy wood.”

Sam was still processing this. “You bought a townhouse across campus, and you want me to move in.”

“Yup.” He looked around again. “We can probably fit all of this stuff in the Impala. Want to do it now? That way we don’t have to mess with it after we eat.”

“I didn’t say yes.”

“Trust me, the rent’s cheaper and the company’s better. It’s not good to be alone.”

Sam snorted. “That’s rich coming from you.”

“I know about Jessica.”

The name fell like a stone into the room, sending ripples of tension out.

“She doesn’t have anything to do with this.”

“No, except that I bet you aren’t dating. I bet you haven’t gone on a single date in the last year and a half. This place is freaking sterile, Sam. No pictures, no notes, so flyers. You live on top of a major university, things go on here twenty four seven, and I’d be shocked if you do any of them.”

“I’ve got class, Dean. Studying. It’s important.”

“So’s a life. Move in with me. We can keep each other company. I’ll drag you out to clubs, you can show me whatever boring things you do.”

“Wow. That sounds just, uh, fantastic.”

“You’d really rather stay in this crummy overpriced dump that move in with me?” Dean demanded.

“How do you know it’s overpriced?”

“Is it cheaper than free? Because that’s the current market rate. It’s not like I’ll be home all the time. I am on the road a lot, and if you need space you just lemme know. I won’t ogle your dates.”

Sam remembered some of his brother’s stories. “Yes, you will.”

“Maybe a little.”

Sam smiled. “I can’t let you pay for the whole thing.”

“What’s to pay for? I bought it outright.”

“I can’t live there for free, Dean! I’m an adult, you have to let me pay something.”

“Have you noticed that conversations that start with you all ‘I’m an adult’ don’t really end well?”

“I’m not kidding.”

“You can buy dinner.”

“Every night?”

“Sure. All three nights of the month that I’m home. Feel free to buy your own whenever you want,” he added generously.

Sam glared.

Dean frowned and sniffed around. “I don’t think you should bring this couch. Did you find this in a dumpster?

“I’m not sure I’m bringing anything anywhere yet. I’m still thinking about it.”

“Can you think while we load the car? I’m really hungry. I think the last thing I ate was a burger around Tulsa. Do you know how far Tulsa is, Sam? Because my stomach does, and it thinks my throat’s been cut.”

Sam gave up. “What about my furniture? We can’t shove that in the Impala.”

“Well, I invited you to move in. This couch is not invited. Neither is anything that has to be propped up not to wobble. I’ve spent most of my life living in shit-holes. In my house things don’t have to be fancy, but they will goddamn well work like nature intended.”

“It’s not really filling me with optimism about this little venture that you’re throwing around the ‘my house’ line before I even move in,” Sam pointed out. “I like my furniture. Maybe we can rent a truck tomorrow or something.”

“Optimism’s overrated, and I’ve got plans for tomorrow. You said the stoners next door are Botany kids?”

“Yeah.”

Dean jumped up and smiled beatifically. “Problem solved. There’s truck out front with a ‘Peace, Love, Hydrangeas’ bumper sticker. That’s a type of plant, right?”

“Yeah, but--“

Dean grabbed the barrel of pretzels off the counter and was in the hallway before Sam could think to stop him. His voice drifted clearly back through the open door.

“Yo, potheads! I’ve got pretzels if you’ve got car keys...”

Sam sank back into the couch, grinning ridiculously despite himself. The next few months might be stressful, but they wouldn’t be boring.

  
  
**Epilogue**

Dean sat on the front steps of his townhouse. A rare snow fall was drifting lazily down from the cloudy evening sky. Behind him the house was dark. Getting Sam moved in had taken most of the evening and tired them both out. After a hearty dinner and a second round of hauling boxes up stairs, Dean had finally left his little brother sprawled out across his bed in his new room. Content.

Mostly. There were still things between them that needed to be ironed out and repaired. A little matter of Sam flinching any time Dean brushed by him. The way he’d shied away when Dean sat next to him on the edge of the mattress to talk. They were little subconscious things. Sam himself barely seemed to notice, but they indicated a lack of trust on the most basic level. And Dean needed his trust even more than he needed Sam in immediate reach. The genuine happiness in Sam’s eyes when he’d greeted him had been gratifying, and Dean felt the net draw around his heart a little tighter. He swore silently at his dad again and fished the cell phone out of his pocket, fumbling in the freezing air for one of the speed dial buttons.

Bobby would not be thrilled to know he featured on such a button, but tough. Dean was turning over a new leaf, finally doing what would have made his dad proud. Sam would never stay with him if he was an assassin. He seemed able to accept Dean’s career choice in and of itself, but probably not when it was shoved in his face where he lived. So over dinner Dean assured him that he’d quit. Gone pure vanilla monster, in the more traditional sense. It wasn’t exactly a sacrifice, he’d been mostly out of that dance for a few years anyway.

There certainly weren’t a lack of supernatural spooks to keep him occupied close to home.

The phone rang three times before Bobby picked up with an irritated huff of air.

“My night to be welcomed,” Dean said before Bobby could snarl something about the time.

“How’d it go?”

“My little brother and I have a shiny new apartment together. I even let him call dibs on the bedroom he wanted. It was touching.”

“You let him pick his room?”

“Yeah. But he picked the one with the balcony, so I had to exert the privilege of home ownership and kick him out. He doesn’t need another door in his bedroom.”

“So that touching bit you mentioned, that was when he punched you.”

“We might have exchanged a few words,” Dean admitted. “I gave him first choice, it’s not my fault he chose the wrong one.”

“I don’t think that’s how it works, Dean.”

“That’s what Sam said. But louder and with more words.”

Bobby grunted. “So it’s going okay?”

“We yell a lot and call each other names. But he agreed to live with me and likes my car.”

“Sounds about right. What does he know?”

“Nothing.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Bobby’s voice was heavy with disapproval.

Dean sucked air through his teeth. “Tell him _what_ , Bobby? That the demon that killed mom fed him blood when he was an infant? That dad couldn’t decide if he wanted Sam as far from hunting as possible, or glued right to his side? That not you, me, or the fucking eternal host probably has a clue as to why the damn thing did it, or what it might be doing to him? Is that what you want me to tell him?”

“You said he was immune to the werewolf curse. You know that much.”

“That’s just speculation. _Something_ made him immune, the demon blood seems like a good place to start the guessing.”

“Maybe that’s all it does. He’s a nice, normal twenty-something otherwise, right?

Dean hesitated.

“What aren’t you telling me, Dean?” Bobby demanded.

“I think he’s psychic. Or something. I don’t know.”

“All the spoons in his kitchen drawer twisted into knots?”

“Ha, ha. Very funny. No. Just, sometimes he knows things. Things he shouldn’t know. Like when we were looking for those trolls. That was an entire subdivision, Bobby. Like eighty houses or something, and he’s just determined to knock on the door of the one home where someone knows exactly where to send us?”

“After about a week of tedious, sweaty legwork. If he had a psychic rabbit to pull out of the hat you’d have think he did it before then?”

“I don’t know. He could see her too though -- the troll. Right through her glamour. Also the gambling ring. With all the resources in the world, it still took me a solid two weeks to even confirm those creeps existed. And another couple of weeks to find out where and worm my way in. Sam reads a handful of sketchy notes, then hops a plane in the middle of the night and practically walks right to their doorstep!”

“I’m sure there was more to it than that.”

“Not much more,” Dean said grimly. “He said he wasn’t finding anything, so he just ‘drove around’ and then bam! There it was.”

“Some people are lucky.”

“And some people turn into werewolves,” Dean snapped. “But not Sam.”

“So you’re what -- going to hang out and wait for him to sprout horns? He didn’t think it was a little odd that you would just show up out of the blue, buy a house, and stick him in it?””

“No, I’m going to do what dad wanted to do. I’m going to wait for it to come back, and then I’m gonna end this. The townhouse is safe. I made sure when they were building it. He can do school, he can take up _ballet_ if he wants, and I’m not gonna have to sit up nights wondering what might be dragging him out the back door!”

“Nothing is that safe.”

Dean sighed. “I’ve been on the road my entire freaking life, Bobby. And now I’ve got a brother, and this new responsibility, and -- I can’t drag him around with me, so this is the best I can do. It’s going to be a little weird for awhile, but we’re family. And he needs my help. Even if he doesn’t know it yet.”

Now it was Bobby’s turn to be quiet for a moment. “Twenty-something odd years is a long time, Dean.”

“Not for a demon.”

“You’ve got no reason to think it still even knows Sam exists.”

“Oh, it knows. It’s still here. Watching. Did you know about his fiancée?”

“I don’t like the past tense on that question.”

“They lived together, were planning a wedding. She burned to death in an apartment fire about two and a half years ago. Sound familiar?”

“Jesus. Poor kid. It doesn’t prove anything though. Fires happen, sometimes lightning strikes twice. You’ve got no reason to think the demon was involved.”

“Dad thought it was.”

“Your dad saw monsters in every shadow, Dean. And the one he saw the most was the one that destroyed his life.”

“I hope you’re right. I really do.”

“If I’m not you’ve shacked up with someone whose roommates have an ugly habit of going up in flames,” Bobby pointed out sharply.

“I know what I’m doing.”

“Well, you sure aren’t doing anyone any favors by keeping him in the dark.”

“He’s happy, Bobby. If I tell him--”

“He’s living a lie,” Bobby said flatly. “I’m sure I’d be happy thinking I was the emperor of Oz and parading naked down the street, but someone would have to set me straight eventually. This isn’t a kindness, Dean.”

Dean drew a deep breath. He knew all of Bobby’s arguments, because he didn’t think Bobby was wrong. But he remembered the honest affection and the brightness of Sam’s eyes. Remembered his brother sitting alone in a crummy apartment studying his ass off for a class two days before Christmas.

“He graduates in May. I’ll tell him afterwards. That’s less than six months.”

“Crappy graduation present.”

“Oh, but it’d look real nice wrapped up under the tree,” Dean retorted.

Bobby sighed. “You promise? You’ll tell him after graduation?”

“I will. And if I don’t, you have my permission to tell him yourself.”

“I don’t need your _permission_ for a damn thing, boy.”

“No,” Dean agreed with a sharp smile he knew Bobby could hear in his voice. “But if I asked you not to, and you did it anyways, I’d hold you responsible for whatever shit rained down afterwards.”

“You were nicer before you grew fangs,” Bobby growled.

“I was road kill. Just like all the other sheep out there.”

“Like Sam?” Bobby asked pointedly.

“Jesus, Bobby! I promised. Six months and he’ll know everything I do. I don’t think half a year is a lot to ask before we wreck his life.”

“It wouldn’t wreck yours.”

“I’m not Sam.” Dean rubbed at his eyes, wiping melted flakes from his lashes. “I’m sorry, Bobby. I’m freezing, and tired and just wanted to let you know what was going on. I guess the new digs mean I can have some of those cute little address labels printed up. What do you think, kittens or puppies?”

Bobby sighed. “You should ask your new roommate.”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll see if they have something with clowns.”

“Why clowns?”

“Oh,” Dean said vaguely, “just something he said once.”

Bobby knew that tone of voice. “Looking for trouble already?”

“I’m a Winchester, Bobby. We don’t have to look for trouble, it’s always got our backs.”

 

END

 

**Author's Note:**

> Notes and credits are at the bottom of the following site:
> 
> http://glasslogic.livejournal.com/37045.html


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